Still Alive

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I reflection of the past three years:

I’ve had a child in the middle of a time where we’ve forgotten that science once predicted an ice age but has now turned into predicting a closer hell. Regardless, a child was born. Post-apocolypse times have always been close to mind. Nothing really new there. But accepting that a child always adds a strain: to a mother’s life, to our resources and of course the economy is one thought often denied. I’ve seen a good $500 a month just for giving birth. Something we should let the pro-lifer’s campaign, abortion money for birth money.

I’ve seen a Canadian landscape deny racism, both in its political sphere and in its homes. I’ve seen political marketing campaigns both abroad and across my home openly question the safety of people of colour. No longer ashamed of being ignorant to false claims that the lighter your skin, the cleaner.

I’ve learned that magic both comes not only in forms of witches but in the pockets of imagination of young children. And it can blossom with a spec of dust. Just like dust I’ve seen it thrown away along with it the illusion that only a God can save a person. I’ve felt a human grow inside me and with it be born already burning up from northern lights.

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I’ve felt the weight of death on my grandmother’s breathless body. Her body wasn’t expecting my usual force and she was almost flung into the warm spring floor. At the moment I noticed how much weight had lifted from our house. With it replaced a sorrow only my mother could truly feel.

I’ve had the closest thing to true love come into my life and leave me.

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The touch of many hands have felt my skin since then. And none of them close to fulfilling any true need someone like me craves but never truly needs. The only things left behind have been guilt, shame and I sense of loss of power. Nothing has changed and I was still able to demonize natural impulses.

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Sometimes I think that women who have felt this loss have turned away from our natural self-deprecation and become masters of their own bodies. But then,

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I’ve realized that along the way of becoming our own masters we’ve learned to properly mask ourselves. To survive our own streets. Our beauty gurus are the technicians of our street smarts just like Di Camillo perfected his in his cell, they/we have perfected how to play others, one degree of taupe at a time. No matter. Our masks will always fall short.

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3 years have gone by and I still feel like I am fighting to be seen as human. The hope remains in the life that will continue my fight.

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