Laur's Brain, Volume 13: On the Process of Wilting

Like a Flower

I wish the good weren't ephemeral, transient. If only longevity didn't equate to misery. If only chronic meant short-term. I wish flexibility hadn't been idealized, sought after. If only I could be stiff enough to have my way, to say no.

I wish delicacy weren't praised, sexualized. Dance teachers used to put me front and center. Boys, people, will carve straight into my silk-like skin. They'll bend me until I break, just because they can. Doctors compare me to flowers. They find a synonym to describe my feebleness. They tell me that one day, I'll wilt, as if we both don't know that process has already begun.

I wonder what they'd compare me to if I were a man. I wonder why fragility is associated with femininity, and why the flower is the first synonym that comes to mind when I think about my health. I wonder why fluidity has no power. Why is elasticity a disadvantage? If the pain is there to make me stronger, why can't I take control? Why is my mutability so delicate? Why do we assume that difference makes one weaker?

If Only I Were Stiff

I wish to break societal standards. I wish to reframe the narrative of the hysterical woman whom we cannot understand. If only the world weren't so merciless. If only I could make the change. I will never have the answers. I will never know why. I will be stuck in a state of vulnerability due to my frailty. I will be miserable given the longevity of my pain.

Chronic doesn't mean short-term. A genetic mutation means there is no cure. I feel like I am stagnant. I feel held captive by illness, bound by my genes. There is no way out. I wish to see the sunlight again, to feel the warmth of the world around me. I wish to bask in my femininity, as if it did not cause shame. I wish flowers weren't delicate.