izzy

politics is just me refusing to tell you my name
it’s the woman with limp arms being shaken and held by a man in the street
or telling anyone their body is not a sacred thing
that it does not fit in the allocated boxes
politics is not having to smile when a stranger tells you to

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sarah

help my foot is asleep what if it never wakes up
what if we have to turn off the life support machines
oh my god everyone will cry so much and whisper
‘go towards the light, foot, go towards the angel music’
and then it like shudders and twitches and then the toes turn blue
and everyone holds their breath and then says ‘it’s all over’
and we all bite our lips and hug all the people in the room in turn
and then at the funeral everyone will be like
‘i never knew her foot well enough, i never told it how much it was loved’
and they’ll pile up a bunch of shoes in a funeral cairn as tribute
and then i will spend the rest of my life walking around with a DEAD FOOT on my leg
parents will hurry their children past me and everyone will give me their best pity look
the ‘oh my god I’m so sorry about your foot’ look that we learn to do as adults
and every day ill just stand in the shower and be like, I missed you foot,
and – oh wait, don’t worry, it’s woken up again
false alarm, everyone go home
(I’m keeping the casseroles, though)

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