they come in for the first tour of the day. two dresses, one in floral and the other in embellished black. the former has glasses that glint with rainbow, and the latter can't look me in the eye. i learn the floral one's name off of their card when they hand it to me, but it's wiped from my mind the moment i see it.
(legality does not equate to truth.)
they tell me they found their wheelchair from goodwill, for fifty dollars. their doctor agrees that they need it, but insurance won't pay for it. i nod, and think about the weekly shots that make us hit our deductible in january.
when i mark them down, tally one and tally two, one is smaller, more meek. i stretch it out, run my pen over it again, and it ends up longer than its partner. i'll be able to tell, anyone could, that a mistake was made. it is too bold, too sharp. i still feel satisfied. fuck you. i am here. no one else will know who this tally represents.
the museum has no ramps, and for that i burn with shame. they say they can walk, and i do not ask. i've been through the same song and dance.
what they don't tell you about it, that first pain, the first itch of something wrong, the pain that persists, is the glasses you receive, free of charge. not rose tinted, no, but red. the world does not view the same everyday injustices i do, streets and buildings and people through a haze of rage and compassion. sidewalks uneven. doors nonfunctional. steps too steep or too many. no chairs or benches.
(what does it take to teach someone to care without inconvenience or pain.)
later, after a tour where i am screaming i am here, i am the same, we live here together and they can't fucking root us out they say "our partner", casually, but with the weight of a missing limb. i think that the kids will be alright.
at home, i will shower and skim burned fingertips over pitted skin, and think fuck you. i am here. i am the prettiest fucking weed you've ever seen.
stormborns
areudirty
izzy806
