When did it start –
this slow rejection,
this up-ending,
this back-breaking, heart-wrenching game?

Traitor,
turncoat,
back-stabbing betrayer.

Once I told my hands to move
and they clapped praise.
Once I told my legs to move,
and they danced worship.
Once I told my voice to sing,
and it created harmony.

But while I was otherwise occupied
the whole damn organised organism
led a coup d’état.

Now
while my arms hang limp at my sides,
while my legs lie useless before me,
while my vocal cords remain silent,
my heart leaps and shouts and sings and claps
with joy.

 

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