Wipeout

I’m tired of being hurt and not speaking. Of being thought of as disposable once the glory rolls around. Of being a drudge, cleaning up after dignitaries after the party I helped organise.

Sometimes we say ‘depressed’ to mean ‘sad’ and sometimes it feels like one thing. Erasure saddens, and it can depress. To not be counted, to be disregarded; it does things to one, it can break a spirit.

Every week, I see someone to be honest with. To say the things I don’t tell people, “I feel hurt.” “I am afraid.” “This thing you speak of as yours, I built, acknowledge that.” But also, “Thank you for believing in me.” “Being with you fills me with joy.” “I love you.”

It costs too much to hold all of these things. It scares one too much to think of how they might emerge. If I learn only one thing this year, in life, I hope it’s how to speak my truth.

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