I am more than my disability.

Someone once referred to me as a walking stereotype:

I am a disabled, queer abuse survivor.

How I bristled at being described that way,

like I was an afterthought,

or that I could be described in one word.

By the very act of existing,

I defy stereotypes,

embracing the power that I hold within

so that I can thrive.

There are moments, 

mere seconds,

where I have had to search for my words, 

digging into the soil of myself 

to find where I have planted them

so that I can speak them out loud. 

If I close my eyes,

I can see words like

wonder, joy, magic, warrior.

nestled within the soil.

There is another world inside of me.

It has always been there

and it has grown over time.

During the moments where it is difficult

to do the simplest things,

that world inside of me helps me to find comfort,

even when the trees of the forest are dark

and it is impossible to see beyond

the shadows of the trees.

To protect myself in the darkness,

I let myself find my voice, 

so that the shadow I carry in my blood does not claim everything of me. 

The black ink of my words 

and colored paints of my paintings

are the lifeblood of me. 

They are how I come to terms

with how my body continues to rebel against me. 

I am more than my disability. 

My voice came alive in the darkness

of the forest.