We are not seen as human.
Our bodies are perceived as graveyards, as tragedies, as a terrifying what-if.
They are scrutinized from top to bottom.
They are specimens in a lab.
They are broken.
They are pity.
We are seen as unlovable. Unfuckable. Undesired. Unwanted.
Objectified and thrown away.
We see our bodies- our lives- played out for laughs and tears on screen.
There is no dignity in being an oddity.
Privacy is not a luxury we have.
There are too many eyes.
Curious, unforgiving eyes.
We are gossip at a dinner party. Our stories are whispered as small talk when they think we cannot hear.
Our stories are taken from us.
They try and fix us.
Our broken, beautiful, unfixable bodies.
And they don’t ever succeed.
We try and wash off the words.
Wash off the pity.
Pray the steam will ease the pain.
Grieve for the identities we’ve lost. The identities we never had. We welcome the news ones that were born.
We have been poster children and freak show attractions.
Prisoners and studies.
We have crawled our way to justice.
We have taken pride in the taboo.
Reclaimed our lives.
Mastered the art of being broken.
So beautifully, perfectly, pridefully broken.
Every scar, every bruise, every useless muscle.
Until there is no more shame to wash away.
–on being crippled. on being proud.
I think one of our followers wrote this. I love it.