Waiting for a DWP Disability Assessment by Miki Byrne

I am not a silent poet

The night before,

I imagine their questions.

Expect interrogation.

Picture the suit, laptop,

eyes full of speculation.

He or she will not be a friend

and inside my stomach

a few hornets buzz

and will swarm  tomorrow.

I wonder how the state

expects me to prove a disability.

Their eyes cannot lie.

Nor medical evidence,

yet I must parade myself.

Become an exhibit,

fit under their  microscope.

I won’t sleep.

Can’t pre-guess them,

know their findings.

A sense of outrage simmers.

Who are they to doubt my word,

integrity, breach my privacy,

enter my home?

They call it convenience,

procedure.

I feel assumptions,

unsaid accusations,

coming toward me like trains.

Worry about income cuts,

poverty, cold winters.

Hate their power

to change everything:

My future, my health and sanity,

my whole, fucking, life.

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