I was a child with apple cheeks when I learned my art was worthless unless kept within a stranger’s frame and I would grow up to realise it never stopped at the development of fine motor skills when toy stores gave me gaudy idols so piercing fluorescent pink dyed my soft palms and turned my fists into regal waves I was too young to imitate and too poor to afford the surgery putting the stick in my *** to fake it.
I had dreams of touching the bottom of Mariana’s Trench and bringing clouds home to my Mom to decorate her kitchen. If you told me then in a few years my life would always centre around whether my blankets were blue or pink when I took my first breaths or be defined by the chasm in my body I didn’t even know I had I’d question not for the first time if adults put their brains in jars when they stopped being kids and dye myself green with grass stains.
Fifteen years later I am a muddled grey, an “anti”, a prefix implying rebellion when all I ever wanted was a better chemistry set, some peace and ******* quiet, and the wholeness I never knew would be so painful to miss.
sometimes I can ignore it. and sometimes it's here always.