Yes, it’s uncomfortable.

My lungs creak when I

breathe now, like a seesaw

in a hot summer storm.

Up, down, in, out,

trembling stakes of bone.

When I stand in

the public toilets

the little boys blink at me

and an old man slinks

in to jeer and wink and pee.

I hide in a stall

with my feet on the wall

to hide my unfitting

sitting pose.

Yes, it burns.

Needle-stares and

overt-glares follow,

loyal ducks in a line.

I can’t touch my face

anymore, my fingertips

feel like glass, or more

like crass calls of

a buried name from

the mouth of a family

that carried me.

But I can’t deny, it’s light.

Even when my smile

falters at a shove

into the girl’s line.

Even when I look

online and the world

is at their keys, composing

a melody of hurled

slurs and jibes.

My back aches

and my grandad’s not

quite proud, but

my voice is lowering

like an evening’s final cloud.