maelynslavik

My fingers weave my hair into a braid

Twisting in the experiences I’ve faced:

The “girliness” insults

That say I’m not delicate enough,

The jokes about how I look,

I write,

words appearing.

I write,

meaning endearing.

I write,

hope nearing.

I write,

not fearing.

I write,

I write,

I write.

I wish I could sit high in the sky,

Alone within the nothing,

Yet everyone in the everything

Laid out before me.

I could watch light be cast upon the world,

My reflections stares at me,

The imperfections shooting to my consciousness,

My mind brimming with doubts,

Thoughts that break down my confidence.

I battle them deep down,

Trying to convince myself

Words can be insignificant,

Simple and small,

With letters boringly built up,

Written in unflattering scrawl.

Yet

There are words so delicate,

So precariously arranged,

Their syllables just might fall,