I.
I grew for years, stunted
yet perfect in somebody’s eyes,
believing the crystalline structure
circling my centre
was something to behold
something to be proud of,
resplendent and terrifying.
For sixteen years,
from the moment I drew breath
and my mother’s heart
filled with dread, I bore a shield
of secrecy and strength.
For sixteen years, I revelled in chills
I sent shivering down spines
calculated manipulation and those
whom I never gave the time.
II.
I grew, for years, without one
to call my own – I didn’t tumble
down hills or giggle at films
I skated, dissipated.
A known entity yet untethered
to friendship for life.
They were my mother’s words
filled with dread
“They hardly know you.”
She spoke only truth.
III.
I grew for years, stunted
with an armoured shell
a hologram projected
into parties, classrooms and parks
until I found myself in the dark.
In a cage with no air holes
or bars to shake,
mouths vowels and arms
visible but intangible,
eyes consonants and hands
present but forced.
IV.
I lived, for a year, hidden
mottled blue green and lilac
my body stuttering
in the hazy lights
invisible walls
with no one to call,
except those who tried their best
an army of unrest.
V.
I lived and I learned
only I can rattle the bars
of the cage I built
with bleeding hands.
Only I can struggle for air
in the pool of despair
I watered myself.
Only I could free
wrists and ankles
from shackles
I’d fought so long,
to protect.
VI.
I grew, for years, stunted
until I learned
to be vulnerable.
Stunning!
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