how i move through the world / followed / by the third footstep of my cane / by the rev and squeak of small engine and tread wheels / beneath me / hot pink rudder steering / by the marks i leave on door frames / that don’t consider me a big enough reason / to change.

how i move through the world like / walk / wheel / sit / stand / prop myself on furniture during the ads / fall against the walls of my apartment / similarly marked / but this time not a gatekeep / but a backstop for the back break / the great ache of a once graceful body lumbers into the living room / wrapped in braces like a modern mummy / hot pink KT tape healing / the small sad violin song of bone on bone degeneration in endless places / base of neck / elbow / hip / ribcage / i shade the whole diagram in pain / i am scared to be 80 years old / if this is what 26 feels like.

how i move through the world / spinning pirouettes to bass beats / in 20 second clips / i send to my girlfriend / and then spend hours on the floor / head spinning to silence / in regret that the expression of joy / robbed me of my place in the world / again / the boys on Hinge say “you can stand, it can’t be that limiting, that bad” / and i laugh / swipe left / ask the tarot cards when someone will love me enough to try and understand / the way i move through the world.

these goddamn beautiful swan boat lagoons / i swim in / to cross the world / have rescued me from drowning / how could i condemn my need / for freedom / by the false act of denying myself / a way to move through the world / a swan boat / a chariot / a throne.

when i have to disclose to a new date that i don’t drive / please clear space in your car for my wheelchair / only get coffee where my allergies don’t flare up / try to be good enough that the way i / move through the world isn’t / a takeaway / a detriment / that i can make up for it with my / smile / pussy / personality / because the way i move through the world puts restrictions on my / bank account / marital status / privacy / my every choice / and i have three more years of university left because i am now / well enough to attend / but where was i then?

i could not move through the world, then.

dying star / atrophied heart / in bed all weekend / i streamed shows again and again / Parks and Rec 8 times in 3 years / but the world through a screen / was never the goal / perennial little miss big dreams / now i move through the world / and follow them. 

i forget the boys from Hinge / swim beyond what could have been / build vehicles for movement in the body or the brain / take up new hobbies / run maintenance, run repairs, run out of steam and try again / o, lift me high in veneration / for this piece of meat is how i move through the world / this hulking sack of muscle and bone / this pulsing piecemeal neuronal machine / this belief in getting somewhere / where the pain is worth / the travel.

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Jess Roses (she/they) is a disabled, neurodivergent, emerging writer. Her focus is the transformation of relationships and experiences with pain and the taboo. She explores how these communal experiences form and relate to societal and personal narratives within and without the psyche. She has been published in Caustic Frolic, Coffin Bell Journal, Raven Review, Grub Street Literary Magazine, and more. You can find her work on Instagram at @jessroseswriting.