Disability covets isolation, this
stripped-back, box-like state.
Rustic serenity, with breathing
room would be preferable, but
nostalgia creeps in and lack of
self-worth leaves the door open
to unwanted visitors, phantoms
of former torments, nondescript
invaders targeting the lonely,
misconstruing lack of health
for neediness, preying on weak-
hearted, presuming incapability.
I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of
fellow travelers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach
out, aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot
fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.