Chronic C U T I E.

Chronic C U T I E, shout it from the roofs, and call for accessibility. I can do it all, even on days when I flare like nostrils. I am the raging, blazing sun when it’s determined to burn. Waited patiently, but now it’s my turn. So I’ll shine like crystalline sand, like the diamond in the rough that I have always been.

Chronic C U T I E, own it, just don’t let it decide you’re not the one. Ableism aids and abets a society that tells us that we’re different, or that we can’t and need to stay in our own lanes. Refuse to be a product of their prescription, even if we fit the description. Our intuition’s strong from living so close to pain’s precision.

We become fluent in endurance, in the language of adaptation. We know how to build a life inside limitation without letting it become our entire narration.

I am not a cautionary tale. I am not your pity project. I am not the body you reduce to what it cannot do on its worst day.

I am innovation.

I am stamina.

I am a witness to my own becoming.

Make the doorway wider.

Build the ramp.

Lower the barrier. Listen when we tell you access is not charity— it is justice made practical.

Chronic C U T I E, say it proud, say it plain: I deserve joy without apology. I deserve rest without shame. I deserve a world that does not demand my suffering as proof of my worth.