I leave the house,
with a list folded small inside my pocket,
Oat milk,
Bread,
Tea,
Super simple every day task.
My body has other ideas.

The pavement, disappears beneath parked cars
that go wherever they please,
while dropped kerbs exist, technically,
but it would require double the amount of steps, for me to reach them.

Every doorway
is another raised eyebrow.
Every step
another sentence
written by someone who never imagined,
Someone like me arriving.

People call these
"little inconveniences",
as though mountains
are only pebbles
if you are not the one made to climb them.

I am told to be patient,
to smile,
to ask for help,
to be grateful
when strangers lift
what should never have been a barrier at all.

Grateful.
As if dignity is a favour.
As though independence is a luxury item kept behind the counter.

The shop is only
A few streets away,
unless the lift is broken,
unless the bus stops a little far away,
unless the path is blocked,
unless the weather pools inside of potholes
Deep enough to drown another good intention.

The world insists it is accessible.
It says this from the top of another step.

I reach the door,
breathing harder
than the distance deserves,
and wonder
how many architects,
councillors,
designers,
and decision makers
have never had to notice
the things they built.

I came for bread.
Instead I have collected
detours,
stares,
apologies,
and exhaustion.

Tomorrow they will call me
inspiring
for trying again.

But they wont call the city
a failure
for making sure
I have to keep trying.