I’m a confrontation of the comfort your privilege affords.
The irritating reminder that if you keep burying your head in the sand
You’ll suffocate.
Of course I grate on you, like the poverty and alienation I come from
Grates on the souls of the people who toil under it daily,
Doing our best to rise above it.
I feel wrong because
I am wrong, I’m out of place
In your space when I should be “out there”.
There’s definitely something off about me,
I do not belong here. And that’s ok.
As long as you can find the place within yourself
That accepts your own subjectivity
And realizes why my presence affronts you.
For as long as you experience my existence
I remind you
That there’s ways of moving through the world that you’ve never known.
People don’t have to stay where they belong,
And people who are broken can still function
Whilst simultaneously falling apart.
I get it, that me being outside of the neat categories of your life makes you feel uneasy.
It’s ok.