What You Don’t See (But Refuse to Notice)
A sequence
Author’s Note:
This sequence is drawn from lived experience of navigating public space, healthcare, and transport as a disabled couple. It is not written to invite sympathy, but to demand attention — particularly to the moments where voices are ignored, time is rushed, and need is mistaken for inconvenience.
The poems speak in more than one voice because life does.
I. What You Don’t See (But Refuse to Notice)
On the outside
I’m fine.
Standing.
Breathing.
Passing.
Inside, everything hurts
from being held together
for your comfort.
One wintry evening at Chester Station
I had to shout.
Not because I wanted to.
Because no one moved.
A crowd pressed in,
eyes forward,
bags wide,
space guarded like property.
I raised my voice
so Natalie could get off the train.
Not to be dramatic.
Not to make a point.
Just to leave.
That’s the reality.
Needing volume
to access something basic.
Then the seat.
Always the seat.
A stranger told me
the one I took was occupied
as if my body hadn’t already decided
it needed to sit.
As if pain waits politely
for permission.
His wife saw it.
Thank fuck someone did.
She named the selfishness
before it landed on me.
And then — grace.
Rare.
Quiet.
An off-duty guard
who saved us both seats.
No questions.
No tests.
Just attention.
We are not invisible.
You are inattentive.
And we are done
with making that easier for you.
II. Talk to Me, Not Them?
I’m standing right here.
You don’t need to look past me
to find the answer.
I hear the question.
I understand it.
I just need time
to let the words arrive.
Don’t rush them.
Don’t redirect them.
Don’t aim them at someone else.
Talk to me.
Not them.
When you talk about me
like I’m not here,
it shrinks me.
I know my body.
I know my mind.
I know when something isn’t right.
Ask me.
Thinking is not confusion.
Taking time
doesn’t mean I don’t know.
III. What It Costs Us
Later,
when the noise is done,
the body keeps score.
Mine tightens
where it held the line.
Hers aches
from being managed instead of heard.
On the outside
we were fine.
Capable.
Composed.
Inside, things bruised quietly.
Pain doesn’t arrive all at once.
It waits.
It settles in
after the adrenaline leaves.
Anger does the same.
Not loud.
Just heavy.
We replay the moments.
What we said.
What we didn’t.
What it cost to stay calm
for someone else’s comfort.
Tomorrow,
we will do it again.
Check the board.
Find the platform.
Measure the gap
between need and permission.
This isn’t resilience.
It’s repetition.
And still —
we get on the train.
IV. After That
I used to think
being seen was the goal.
It isn’t.
Attention is.
Not the kind that arrives late
with apologies.
The kind that turns up early
and shuts up.
We don’t need saving.
We need room.
We don’t need praise.
We need patience.
And if you’re uncomfortable with this,
good.
Sit with it.
Open your fucking eyes.
Open your fucking ears.
And don’t wait
until someone has to shout.
