Freedom 21
She awoke that morning, to discover everything had altered overnight; skies brighter blue,
room calmer space, bedclothes forgiving, dense-weave cotton warmth: binding affluence
within ability. Her family, unexpectedly, were happier, more caring versions of their
previous selves; dark dog days banished to that safe space behind the luxury three-piece
suite upholstered with a lie, deceptively protective plastic sheath.
Breakfast wasn't microwaved, conversation craved finally served steaming, piping hot on
china plates without chips, with excess daily vitamins.
Compelled to understand why all of this was suddenly the norm, she asked a question
into dawn which clearly wasn't heard, their conversations only now apparent as a buzz,
annoying hum almost beyond her auditory range as then it was apparent that this was not
awake: all truth uncovered from subconscious brutally aware of that they lacked, sending
a message back that Wednesday morning, 5am, was absolutely the right time to make a
change, escape their homophobic rhetoric and then, to start again.
Like millions of small town kids, who hid themselves away before today: knowing correct
reality could literally cost lives, one perfect bag is packed, only with cash, pay as you go
approach which needs to last until she's safe inside another's house. Next week, there'll be
no eighteenth birthday bash, that dosh instead in pockets which resent, never represent.
Before anyone's awake, she's lost, within blue hour's warm embrace.
This is why she never told them girlfriend's name, that family now offered as your home,
adults willing to embrace you as their own. Will the bigots care she's gone? Is that note
enough to shame them both into another frame of reference, and if it does, might then
their compass understand it's not true north when evolution prompts reversal of a soul's
magnetic core...
Freedom is this red front door, smooth 21 of polished steel.
That becomes their future, no longer dreamt, but real.
More Like You
She said... if the point for you is fame, success, this is the way; I tried as words
disintegrated, tendrils grew, dense cobwebbed moss across her pristine, velvet space that
should resemble joy but then, instead evolved, new testament of anxious inequality
fashioning Imposter Syndrome as a crutch to beat me with, pummelled remains, righteous
inability, exposing film on Normal People’s thoughts, surely with time and space, girl’s
consciousness will shift, replace what others feel is not enough, as yet you might—still
everything is burnt, frayed fractured noise, uncovered resonance that keeps you not just
sane but functional, as then politely no-one cares, so back we go to teaching someone
sensible, marketing’s Golden Ratio within the point: relationship’s too hard to hold, so she
asks me again, you REALLY want success, as punchline was apparently, idea of that intent
become her instead of me...
politely, I decline.
S Reeson [she/they] is 54 and a multidisciplined artist who has suffered with anxiety since childhood. In 2019 they were identified as a Historic Trauma survivor, and are currently pursuing a neurodivergence diagnosis via the NHS. They are married, have two children, and came out as bisexual during the 2010’s. When not writing, taking pictures or starting conversations online they can be found running, cycling or lifting increasingly heavy weights.