You stand where passage falters
where answers thin
into careful language.

Nothing is denied.
Nothing is given.

Only delayed
until it resembles reason.

You call it balance.
You call it caution.
You wear it like it is clean.

Something in me turns
green
sour
nauseating
burning

a slow rising that has no language
except return
and repetition.

I measure time by it now.

You move elsewhere
rooms that close cleanly
evenings that soften
laughter that costs nothing.

But not everyone waits like this.

Not your family.
Not your daughter.
Not your mother.

They would not learn
this kind of silence
or the weight of being held
just outside relief.

Here things linger.

The body speaks
and nothing answers.
Pain repeats itself
until it becomes background.

And still you stand at the threshold
hand steady
certain

deciding
when this is enough.

Not for me.
For you.

A door never closed.
Never opened.

Crouching, kept. 
You,
stand your ground, 
- tall. 

“Well, we’ll find that out”[1]
thought the doctor
when she said she was
autistic
 
laid twenty mattresses
on a pea as a trick
wondering if she could
feel it
 
but she slept well
not even scarcely
never did she complain
oh had black and blue
all over her body
 
now they knew she was faking
for a real autistic girl
is hypersensitive
 
and the pea
was put in the DSM-5
“where it may still be seen
if no one has stolen it”
 
the girl remains undiagnosed
and is still masking

In the bathroom, look in the mirror
and see my reflection. In my mind,
I see a child aged eight who spends
all day looking for the Four-Leaf clover
and blowing the biggest bubble possible.
 
In a flash, the light changes,
and you look into the magic mirror,
see a young adult twenty-eight years old.
I ask the mirror if I will have a happy life.
The mirror says “Yes, Rochelle”.
I am grown up, will I find a job?  I often see
glimpses of my eight-year-old self in the
reflection, and remember those times with pride.
 
Another moment, now the mirror is cracked.
I see a changed person struggling, unhappy,
and troubled.  Much sadness and misfortune
visible in the distorted image. 
 
At the end, I look in the mirror
shattered into many pieces.
I see the lines in my face that
show all the troubled times,
the sorrow.  Can I continue my life,
or am I ready to let it all go?

A fairytale with three wishes,
enchanting fables of dragons, elves, witches.
My story contrasts, recovering from
weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain.
 
My first wish would be strength returned. 
The magic wand waved,
made me tremble with excitement.
But instead blurted out “I want disability.”
So, my right side was still hobbled,
but at least I could park in handicapped spaces.
 
My second wish was to cure my trouble speaking.
But instead, because of aphasia babbled “I want lasagna.”
So, I still could not talk,
but at least I could eat some steamy pasta with gooey cheese.
 
My third wish was to make by brain perfect.  
But instead, jabbered “I want my brain frozen.”  
The fairy gave me an icy slushie to drink.  
So, I had a headache on a hot day, my brain fizzled,
but at least I was refreshed.
 
My three wishes failed,
so, it is back to the beginning.
Weakness, aphasia, and a damaged brain.

I’m too young
that’s what I always thought
what I was taught
you don’t get sick when you’re young
 
It struck me like lightning
sparking through my body
leaving burns only I could see
 
Illness doesn’t discriminate
you can be given a life sentence
without committing a crime
 
chronic illness never saw
that I was barely an adult
that my life had just begun,
it charged in and took control
I didn’t stand a chance
 
“I’m too young for this” 
an almost convincing line
like a broken record ingrained into my brain
telling me I should be okay
 
'you can’t get sick when you’re young'
 
Yet you can never be ‘too young’,
age isn’t part of the equation
pain doesn’t ask for ID
and sickness doesn’t check your year of birth
a diagnosis doesn’t care
that your life has just begun
 
So I stand here now,
without a choice
learning to live with the life I was handed,
pulling strength from setbacks
and courage from downfalls
claiming a life that is still mine
unlearning the myths that society teaches

Each good day feels like a ticking time bomb,
waiting for the inevitable to explode.
They say lightning never strikes twice,
but maybe three, four, five times --
each hospital visit, another diagnosis,
each bolt leaving burns I never asked for.
 
The doctors call it chance.
I call it a pattern etched in static,
my body — a map marked with burns.
I used to think lightning was rare,
just a freak of nature.
Now I know it waits in silence,
and when it strikes,
it doesn’t ask if I’m ready.
 
They admire my strength,
but they don’t see my fear.
I’m more than the list they use to define me.
I’m a daughter, a sister, a friend --
I’ve got ambitions,
dreams that stretch beyond this storm.
 
When will it end?
I whisper to the thunder rumbling beneath my skin,
but even as I crumble,
I stand --
courageous, unbroken, and unashamed,
a fierce light with the strength to carry on.

Today, the pain wears pearls,
sits politely between my ribs.
I dress her in cardigans
and loose language:
"I'm just a little tired."
No one asks tired how it learned to limp.
 
At the pharmacy,
I forget
my own name
but remember
every pill by shape,
not color—color lies.
 
The woman at checkout
tells me
I don’t look sick.
As if illness should dress in spectacle,
as if my body forgot to audition
for their idea of broken.
 
Some nights,
my limbs forget they belong to me.
Memory peels away like wallpaper
in a flooded house--
who was I before the diagnoses piled up
like eviction notices from my own skin?
 People offer cures
wrapped in politeness,
like scripture:
drink more water,
think happier thoughts,
be grateful it’s not worse.
Sometimes I nod.
Sometimes I swallow
 their kindness
like a shard of mirror,
because even pity
can feel like attention.
 
I am the archive
of every
"you're exaggerating,"
every "have you tried yoga?"
every "maybe it’s in your head."
Yes, it is.
It lives there.
It eats there.
It sleeps curled beside my dreams,
drooling its fog into the marrow
of what I once called normal.
I carry absence in my spine.
It pulses when I smile too long.
I’ve buried friends
beneath my silence,
lovers in the shape of questions
they were too afraid to ask.
 
No one sees the room
beneath my skin--
where the lights
flicker                  
and all the windows are locked
from the inside.
I have written letters
to the version of me
they would believe.
She walks without flinching,
remembers birthdays,
laughs without consequence.
But she does not exist.
And I am still here.
Unable
to find parking
in the complicated structure
that is my life.

I wasn’t a teenager
The optician said it wasn’t grease either 
Within months I heard voices that sounded similar 
Each day they got friendlier
I felt humiliated I couldn’t see their faces 
They looked like ghosts and light was scattered through my utah 
I felt saddened that in the night the stars were not clear and appeared to be more far 
My mum held me tight and told me I was her strong 25 year old 
Drs said it was the rarest eye disease they ever saw and my story was just about to unfold 
I began to go from poised to quite the clutz 
At least the elderly had jokes about the reflux 
Or pretty much my bad dancing on broadway street 
The sun was once my best friend but there was a time I dreaded the heat 
My eyes watered and the light scattered more into I threw myself into oblivion 
Then I met a brave Palestinian 
He told me not to give up that the eye disease I had was keratoconus and my cornea was wearing thin 
I cried as I once again stumbled and hit my shin
The Palestinian urged me to get a life changing surgery called collagen cross linking 
I heard crickets as I stared at his ghostly figures thinking I saw a short beard through my excessive blinking
My right eye was too far gone and  I was laughed at as I developed astigmatism and everyone laughed at me 
None the less I was numb for hours and then  screaming baby 
Mum took care of me 
Assuring I got salty drops into my eyes 4x a day 
I couldn’t see with my right eye so I kind of felt helpless at this point in my life and I just listened to soothing audio and lay and lay
My eye healed and she asked if I could still see ghosts or scattering
To my surprise the ghosts were gone and I saw the scattering was less on the lights so we got back to knattering
We had great conversations and eventually I took care of mum through her sickness until she passed away and finally met a great surgeon 
She was Indian 
She moved the entire muscle in my eye the scattered lights is still there and ghosts but not the astigmatism unfortunately nothing could relieve the scar 
There are things I want to do like drive, but I might not be able to because contacts feel like you’re wearing foreign objects and getting infections 
I wish your sight could be restored with injections 
Like they do flu jabs and other such nonsense 
None the less it’s a horrific disease but it never stopped me smiling but why be miserable I have my other eye it makes sense 

Forest shadows hide impairment.
Owls hoot, concealed in the dense canopy.
Tall, leafy trees flank the faint path.
Difficult to follow, wander aimlessly.
Lost, and the orange sun dips down;
walk in an endless maze.   
Leg weak, worry about falling. 
Disability is a war with no battles.
 
In a clearing, giant raccoons
with bushy whiskers, striped fur,
and ringed tails encircle us and watch
with reflective beady eyes.
Leader wears mask, makes handicap
fall behind, cannot run.  How to escape?
Will the fairy godmother help
or will the evil witch devour us?
 
Hear a car with music blaring
from the speakers.  Look towards
the sound and see a road. 
Hiking poles to get over the rocky trail,
right half of body weak.
Now, see the way to overcome
yet another challenge.