“What’s wrong with you?” she says smirking

stoic staring

watching my broken body

slowly climbing eight cement steps

my own personal mountain

letting the heavy wooden door

slam in my face–

at my refusal to answer

“You’re too young to use a cane” he says

unfamiliar, uninvited

looking me up and down

as if assessing the damage

And I’m tired

of inaccessible buildings

nonworking elevators

and walking to

the furthest side of the building

to find the ramp.

But mostly I am tired

of you.

Of your adolescent curiosity

as you try to place me into categories

that don’t fit

Of not using the tools I need

because I can’t deal with

one more rude question

one more rude question

one more fucking rude question

posed by

you, southern sticky sweet

nice girl

concerned girl

cultured girl

charity-lovin’ débutante

but hey, your father’s brother’s mother’s

second cousin twice removed has a neighbor

who has one of those “cripple” kids

so you must really get it

But before you give me one more

tokenizing, stigmatizing

self-satisfying query

please

mind your own

mind your own

mind your own

fucking

business.

__

We did a spoken word workshop for my college poetry class. Spoken word is certainly not my forte in the world of poetry. For me, this was the result. Just thought I would share for those who are tired of explaining. Happy Monday.