I Didn’t Know The Fires Were Cold

Here is the key to my heart that I clench between my knuckles when I’m walking down alleys at night.   My heart stands alone beneath the street lamps wears a winter coat does not shake your hand. Does not give you directions. Does not give you it’s name because haven’t we all found crushed fairies at the foot of our bed and said nothing? Haven’t we all said goodnight to our dreams?   Here is the key to my heart that I left in my foster carer’s door latch when I was fourteen when home was the cavity inside my chest when home was the broken space between dawn and silence. I told my carer I’d fallen and cut myself. She bemoaned my muddy jeans.   Here is the key to my heart that I used to flip open the lock when my little sister was stuck in the bathroom.   Here is the key to the lock.   It is yours now. _______ I wrote this poem four years ago and forgot about it. I wrote the first verse again, without rememberi...

Before I became disabled I was in awe of disabled people who did things I couldn’t even whilst living with the hot fire agony of pain. Now I know how they did things in pain. They could do it because their pain was constant, so if they wanted to do something, they did it in pain. And they could do it because the disabled relationship with pain is different to the non-disabled relationship with pain. I didn’t know the fires were cold.  Many non-disabled people know disabled people experience pain differently. Usually they think disabled people get used to very severe pain and it no longer hurts. They think there is no fire. But disabled people usually feel pain at least as intensely as non-disabled people, and lots feel pain more excruciatingly. But the way the pain affects their life is different. The ways they manage their pain are different. There is a fire and the fire is cold. Disabled pain and non-disabled pain are different but they are both pain.  Hot fires burn hot and...