Id: two pictures of a white person from the neck down. Their flannel is open and its tummy pudges out over their belt. In the second picture their hand is on their bulge, visible through its jeans.
I followed, I was cradled and coaxed back into the idea that if I followed -
Well you mustn't be doing it properly -
If direction and guidance aren't adequate, when does it cease being the trusting ones fault?
I was made small. Persuaded that any inherent largeness to myself was poison. Never taught how to manage it merely sequestered.
The first steps are clumsy, but such is the price of ignoring and caging. This could have been avoided. Growing pains are uncomfortable, true, but no moreso than the clipping of wings and the waking after being defanged.
Pain of freedom is different. Its the pulse of a justified anger, the strain of movement unrestrained. Its the stretch and the practice of fitting, or not. Sometimes it is being alone.