Today she was reminded
of all her faults;
the ones she keeps in boxes,
rather than the false ones
she champions, for social acceptance.
Most days, only she knows
where they are kept
but she forgets
she did not walk from her mother’s womb
into adulthood.
She stumbled and crawled
with a bloody nose,
and through a broken jaw
she learned how to pronounce
‘imperfect’ and name every fault.
She breathed life into them
before she filled each box
and pressed down the lid.
She acknowledged them
and the way they hurt
others; beating hearts
black and blue,
a third eye so swollen it will not open.
They reminded her today
the boxes are not hidden;
instead some days,
they are hung like bunting.
Facets strewn like silly string,
kaleidoscopic streamers, and shrapnel.
An explosion of her colours;
ashamed and nervous
because she’s convinced herself
she’s worthless;
she’s selfish, childish,
nostalgic and a kind
of heartbroken she’s named
‘Nameless’; because that’s how she feels
when people talk about her boxes
instead of the roses
blooming in her cheeks.
© Kristiana Reed 2019
Great work/play. The title drawn perfectly from the string.
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Thank you very much ☺️
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You nail girlhood to the wall. Well done! ❤
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Eeek thank you ♥️
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