Boys
I hear the footsteps behind me. I can’t stop myself from checking. How am I to know for sure? I’m not sure why I even check, let’s be honest, it’s not like I am about to run away, at least not successfully. As I look over my shoulder, I don’t see a serial killer, but a boy. A cute one at that. The boy doesn’t look at my limp as I walk or even my prosthetic legs — no — his eyes look at my own. I blush at the foreign intimacy of it.
The boy and I walk to the same building. He holds the door, “Thank you,” I tell him. He blushes. He thinks I’m pretty. “You’re welcome,” he whispers, his nervousness coming through in his voice. He walks up the stairs first. I try to follow him as quickly as my prosthetics allow me to, which, spoiler, isn’t very fast.
I lose sight of him.
I round the corner and as I walk up the last few steps, I see him again. Standing by the door, waiting — waiting for me — holding the door. I imagine that he doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind that I’m slower than most people, doesn’t mind the obtrusive sound my leg makes each time I take a step. Maybe he never even noticed. Maybe he waited not because he felt he needed to but because he wanted to.
I see the boy again after class standing by the water fountain. Without thinking, I stop, pulling my water bottle from my bag. It’s the perfect opportunity. We stand facing each other, alone in the hallway. I wait for him to ask me a question, make a joke or even just introduce himself. But he doesn’t.
They never do.
Look
Look at me.
What do you see when you look at me?
Don’t lie and say the color of my eyes: you see my deformities.
We hang out, you like me to your surprise, but look at me.
How do I look? Like a friend?
It’s okay, I know you don't mean to offend.
“Inspirational Porn”
“Wow, look at you,” they said.
Look at me when?
I screamed inside my head
Now, behind the mask you’ve made me thread.
Or, tonight in my bedroom when my performance comes to an end.
I’ve spent my life hiding.
Hiding from the pain, hiding in books and in my great big smile.
Can't you see my eyes? Filled with dread.
Am I weak if I just sit here and cry?
Who Am I?
My most authentic voice only speaks in my head and is only heard on paper. She got sick when I was young and beat into hiding through years of not crying. Now that I'm older I feel her peering near. Sometimes when I'm crying, I think she might appear. Sometimes, I wonder if you, too, can hear her crying from deep inside my mind.
Secretly
The worst part is that I don’t want to hide how I feel, but I can't say it either. I want someone to care enough to pry it from my cold fingers. But that’s the lesson I haven’t learned yet. No one’s going to save you when you are silently screaming.
My Ghosts
For you, I will start applauding. For you, I'd erase my memories, wishing I could forget. For you, I'd go back in time and tell myself that you are a lie. You appear in my nightmares, a ghost with my own face. You appear as a manifestation of all my guilt. I appear, now, older, to take back my story. I appear to speak for myself, not for what you all want to hear. Between us, we know, your pedestal is a cruel joke. Between us, we know, ableism is within us all even in my own ghost.
DIF –
Is it possible to ever really be knowable - I wonder
It’s hard to believe our reality, is anyone trustable? - I wonder
Sometimes I don't want commitment.
With all that’s wrong with me, am I even loveable? I wonder.
You know, they say if I ask for help I am just enabled
Why does everything about me have to be labeled - I wonder
Why is everyone so soft, can't this just be tabled?
“No, you are just unique” — they say
I've come to believe that's a polite way to say disabled.
The kids these days are all cradled.
My name is Nyla and I am disabled. Am I scary to you?
For you, is that word even sayable – I wonder.
One Day:
They say one day, they won’t care.
I buy that sometimes, but today feels timeless.
Timeless, timeless: It’s funny that we say timeless.
Time is the least constant thing in my life.
It ticks, ticking, 'till I am puking.
This era passes like it’s been fifty years.
One day I’ll pray for a pause, but today
I’d give my life for someone to hit play.
Nyla White is junior studying political science and English with a concentration in creative writing. Her life is mostly consumed by Taylor Swift, books and disability advocacy. You can reach her at nwhite2@nd.edu
