Or perhaps you would prefer to hear my hands shake, that I can no longer feel my fingertips, that I shut them in closets and cabinets because I do not know when I have released the doors and when I am still holding on, that my thumbs and my toes move on their own, and I cannot sense half my feet even when I am walking, that suddenly, I cramp like hinges under stricture of unrelinquishing screws, that it runs from the base of every perception to practically my pelvis and, oh lord, if I don’t at least try to make it to the closest bathroom, even the strongest drugs will not untie that knot of nerve endings and my body keeping score. And I suppose if that makes you smile, or if tell you, then you’ll finally get it (because you surely didn’t understand when I told you I have anxiety, that I ask a lot of questions, because, you know, it helps to have some context) either way it will make things a little clearer, won’t it, and you will finally get it through that dense collection of brain cells, ego, and bureaucrazy (I’m leaving that typo there on purpose) that I’m not something for your collection, and if you think someone with disability is something you toy with then laughingly cast aside, then you have picked the wrong doll from the shelf this time because, trust me, this one will haunt you forever. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 5, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024