Ambulatory Wheelchair User

In a world,

Where legs are synonymous, 

With liberty. 

Mine choose, 

When to stand,

And when to rest.

I am,

An enigma,

To those who only see, 

The world,

In absolutes. 

They whisper - 

A spectacle - 

When I rise, 

From my wheeled throne,

As if,

My bones are betraying,

Their narrow beliefs. 

It's a miracle, 

They jest, not knowing, 

The cost of each step.

Or the weight of their gaze.

My existence, 

A fluctuating tide, 

Ebbing and flowing, 

Between the shores,

Of dependence and autonomy.

But in their eyes, 

I am a paradox.

A question they did wish, 

To ask: 

If you can walk, 

Why the chair? 

As if my legs,

Owe them a story. 

Or my pain, 

A spectacle.

They don't understand, 

The strength it takes,

To navigate a world,

Not built, 

For bodies that refuse, 

To fit in boxes, 

Of can and cannot.

I am not, 

Your inspiration,

Or your tragedy.

I am a galaxy,

Vast and mysterious. 

Defying your simple,

Explanations.

So when you see me stand,

Know it's not defiance,

Or a miracle,

It's just another way,

I embrace,

The complexity of being.

And when I choose, 

To roll instead of step. 

Know it's not surrender,

But an act,

Of self-love,

And preservation. 

In a society that equates, 

Mobility with worth. 

I claim my space,

Not as a question,

Or an answer,

But a declaration:

I am here.

I am whole.

Whether standing, 

Or rolling,

I am me,

And that,

Is enough.

- Aspen Greenwood