in the time it takes for the oven to preheat

We’re born believing things are fair until the day we learn they’re not. 

That means something different to us than it does to you 

but you’ll never know it. 

Not really.  

Our world looks similar 

but it sounds different, 

feels different. 

Ours is laced with a fear so natural it’s like breathing, 

a pang in our hearts, 

a resentment that simmers, but too-often only boils over with dread. 

Our bodies are never our own. 

Our voices always end up sounding quiet,

even when we’re screaming. 

Our burdens feel impossible but we carry them still,

even when we’re mourning. 

You try to represent us, punish us, put us in a box. 

You build yourself up by tearing us down, but you forget we’re made to rise from ashes. 

Our bodies rip themselves apart all the time;

we’ve learned not to flinch. 

We’ll endure you too. 

You and your fury. Your inadequacy. Your fragility. 

If you break us, you’ll live a life hemmed in by shards of glass. 

How will your fragility withstand that?

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