Yes, it’s uncomfortable.
My lungs creak when I
breathe now, like a seesaw
in a hot summer storm.
Up, down, in, out,
trembling stakes of bone.
When I stand in
the public toilets
the little boys blink at me
and an old man slinks
in to jeer and wink and pee.
I hide in a stall
with my feet on the wall
to hide my unfitting
sitting pose.
Yes, it burns.
Needle-stares and
overt-glares follow,
loyal ducks in a line.
I can’t touch my face
anymore, my fingertips
feel like glass, or more
like crass calls of
a buried name from
the mouth of a family
that carried me.
But I can’t deny, it’s light.
Even when my smile
falters at a shove
into the girl’s line.
Even when I look
online and the world
is at their keys, composing
a melody of hurled
slurs and jibes.
My back aches
and my grandad’s not
quite proud, but
my voice is lowering
like an evening’s final cloud.