How Would I Be Different?

I hear the birds. The coffee is good. Sitting on the floor in the sun, feeling run down by the world. Then feeling like I don’t deserve to feel that way. This is the work. Not just for now, but forever.

Take me back to the days of pen on the page, jotting down insular thoughts that criss cross my mind like wine on my lips. Fast and smooth. Too easily. I can’t unsee it. Am I wrong to want to? I shouldn’t have the choice. Seeded in privilege. How would I be different if my skin wasn’t white? If my hair wasn’t blonde and my eyes weren’t blue? If I grew up with hardship, with danger, with less. If I struggled for necessities. Fought for basic rights. If I had to bite my tongue in fear for my life. If I was queer - judged by who I love. If I was trans, trapped in a body I didn’t understand. If I had one parent, or none at all. Or parents who fought. If I didn’t have a sister to share all my thoughts with. How would I be different if I lived in a world that gave the same fucks about a boy and a girl. Where everyone was equal by systematic standards. Where history was erased and moving forward was all that mattered. Would I still feel run down by someone else’s pain? Of course I would, because we are all the same.