My walking stick holds me up,
Keeps me standing.
It reminds those who can't see my pain, that it is in fact there.
It’s a shield.
A quiet protest against invisibility.
An assumption turned to fact.
So the world can no longer say
"I didn’t know."
This stick
It speaks in silence.
It cuts through the assumptions
That I’m lazy, faking, fragile,
That I’m too young to hurt,
Too pretty to be broken.
Pain doesn’t always bend you.
It doesn't always drag your foot.
Sometimes it just lingers
In joints,
In muscles,
In every step that costs more than it should.
They see the stick and finally
They pause.
Not to understand.

But to justify their pity.
Or their judgment.
Or their sudden discomfort.
this stick isn't for them.
It's for me.
It’s freedom
Measured in meters,
Counted in steps I couldn't take without it.
It’s defiance
Against a world that says,
“If I can't see your struggle, it doesn't exist”
It’s identity
Not weakness,
But the strength to admit
I need help.

And that’s okay.
So I grip it like truth.
Like power.
Like proof
That I walk through a world
Not made for me,
But I walk anyway.
On the days that I can.

Let them stare.
Let them wonder.
Let them learn.
That pain wears many faces.
And that mine carries a stick.