I Stand My Ground


I’m walking through the park, navigating past all the flag balloons and bunches of people flashing white teeth and sunlight off their sunglasses. We all are holding something in our hands. 

One glance at my hat and the sour disapproval look of liberal haughty Seattleite comtemptuousness is blasted from them like the cold arctic wind coming through on those nights when the sun sets at 2 in the chilled winter afternoons. 

Celebrate a holiday that celebrates freedom yet stare in disgust at those who bear the mark. I could hold a severed head in my hand, ragged stump dripping blood with eyes crossed and mouth slack jawed and they would still only notice the jagged patch on their smooth circular edge. 

The only thing they would see is the blue hat on top. I wonder what they’re thinking, idly to myself amidst their sneers. 

Oh my GOD does he have a gun?! I wonder how many people he’s killed. Oh he probably thinks he’s so fuckin special. Fuck him, fuckin baby killer. Oh look, another government tool. 



I wonder if they know my own contempt for having been lied to, used, abused and discarded once my body broke down? I wonder if they care that my hands shake in pain everyday, that I struggle to carry 10 pounds up 3 flights of stairs, or that I’ve resigned myself to death at 50. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t care, either way. 

I keep walking straight. I keep walking as tall as my broken body and limp skewed gait will allow me. I keep my fuckin hat on my head. I meet their stares, right into their eyes past those tinted lenses. No matter how hard they try to hide it, I can see right through it all. I can see it there, plain as the hat on my head. 

I refuse to ever look away. 

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