Has anyone seen Hope?

I am grieving hope.

A lost child in a burned out park, 

The gray where flowers once stood.

A memory.

I thought humans were better.

I'm alone.

No not alone,

But lonely in that feeling 

Of care and healing done communally.

There is this western ideal.

It's called individuality.

Some have it translated to

“Only I and what I want matter;

Only I and what I approve of are alive.”

Worthy of life.

Not worthy of life.

Three letters mean a lot.

The rest of us move through life masked.

Hoping they don't recognise us.

I rather you be inconvenienced than lose my soul

How do you want them to pray without any hands, or talk without their words?

When their tongue is stuck to the roof of their mouths, and their mind is still at home?

When their stomachs rumble louder than the bombs, what do you want them to do?

How can you say they lack basic humanity, but when put on display,

Ours is the one that is found wanting, every single time?

We have killed and we have slaughtered, and we have watched them die.

When the emptiness echoes louder than bombs, what do you think we should do?

Empty our vowels onto the sidewalks, and hope silence is the key?

I rather scream and bury your opinions of me, if it means life.

Lives lived in the grave

You tell me:

No one is free until we all are free,

While spitting in my face and choking me.

Where is the care you promised me?

You keep telling me that I'm free now. 

All restraints lifted.

All my shackles have come down.

I have to say that I can't see it.

You have your freedom and I'm still bleeding.

You have your future and  I'm still locked down.

Paying the price for your breathing.

Pouring my oxygen into your smile.

I have been sacrificing myself again and again and again and again 

And for a long, good while.

You won't know that you have you joined me until the moment when

Your breath is disappearing into them. 

And you are me

And I am you

And we will never be them again.

We will never be there again. 

Where being together unfethered

Feels like a breath of fresh air.

Death sometimes knocks on my chest.

At least Death likes to greet me with a mask.

I'm not ready to die yet. 

Yes everyone dies in the end.

But I shouldn't have to be ready to die yet.

Why do you say me dying is for the best?

But what do I expect? 

The only disabled people you respect 

Are dead.

You tell me:

No one is free until we all are free,

While you live on the grave you buried for me.

While I live in the ground you dug up for me.

Is that the freedom you promised me?