I wish to be honest with you,
but my very skin is working to deceive me.
It covers me, and I wish sometimes
that I could rip it off, shred by shred,
and feel no pain from it.

But I will attempt to paint a picture for you.
I will show me, the girl-person behind the skin,
behind the eyes, the fingernails, the hair –
I will show the thing behind the words.
And please do not be surprised
if you don’t like the thing I reveal to you.

I am a strange creature, bitter and frail,
with the power of a dust mote, floating on the breezes.
The world’s words dig claws into me, and so I make
a place within myself to hide – a Paradise –
I’d invite you, but there isn’t a door you can reach.

We could hold hands, you and I,
and venture into the land where the grass
is up to our ankles, and flowers cover the hills.
The wind will carry a river’s scent
and the only sound is the harmony of trees.
There, I might tell you how much you mean to me
(but only there; never here, it isn’t safe).

I think maybe
my emotions would surprise you; I am not shallow
and love flows out of me, for I am brimming with it
I want everyone to love me, as I love them
and I simply don’t want to be hated,
because I am afraid.

I cry for others;
I cry for myself;
but mostly,
I cry because crying,
like a river,
cannot be stopped.

The only scars I bear in this world
(not physical ones – I mean another kind)
are ones I have created myself;
I haven’t broken yet
haven’t let myself fall
but someday, I think I will, because
I won’t know what flying is without a bruise or two.

So they tell me.

I just want to overflow
into another person, to fall in love
as I’ve never loved before;
I want the world to know me –
not to recognize my name, but to feel me,
an imprint of my workings on its surface
like a fingerprint marking clay.

In any event, my days are going
quicker than I can count them by
so excuse me; I must go out
and get my wings, to use them.