Bloodshot, 1617

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The Ableist

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I'm the stillborn that came out screaming
Yeah, one of the swaddled children
My face beat red in transfusion
An unknown painter depicted me
In 1617, I should have died prenatally
In my desperation I made it past my infancy
The crippled bloodshot fraction of a person you consider me to be

I could pray for a stroke of genius
But I've had the prior half
If you want to see conflicted
You can come and fucking question that

When you've faced discrimination
From everyone you've known or loved
You might begin to question just a thing or two
Shame that I survived just to burden you with this
I appreciate your grace and permission to exist

Striking forth-cut the chord
An umbilical splice
What's left of my cerebrum
Chokes down the saliva

I could pray for a stroke of genius
But I've had the prior half
If you want to see conflicted
You can come and fucking question that

If every ounce of love you'd felt
Had been intertwined with pity
You might begin to ask yourself
What you've even known authentically
Yet what I propose to you in theory
Is what I know to be reality
Living countless interactions
To be the subject of your charity
Either exposed on introduction
Or awaiting the unravelling
Excuse my obligation to offer you so much of me
Here I am as someone struggling not to shun their family
And you think that you can tell me you'd rather kill yourself than be me?

Learn your fucking place

Don't you speak to half of what the f*ck it means
While you treated me like a rotted sack, like half a human being
What little you permit reduced me down to this
To watch my future crumble in the clench of my palsied, crippled fist

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