Writing

Looking through the window of a cafe, I see my reflection. Long blonde hair, and light blue eyes. The wind blows, messing up my perfectly styled hair, and as I go to fix it, I realize my reflection isn't following my movements.

I knew it was bad
when you didn’t even have to say it,
when I saw it in your eyes,
when I knew it in the way you folded your arms
and turned away when I spoke.

Democracy isn’t a mother 
who shields you from the storm;  
it’s the ghost of a father 
who leaves when the lights flicker,  
and promises turn to dust 
in his palms. 

When I was younger 

Not yet a teenager 

I was

Unprepared and fragile

I had no armor

No ammunition

And yet I was put into

A battle

Me against

Every single person 

Two doors, both locked, neither mine.
Two names, one I gave up.
Two voices, both demanding I choose.
A home is a shelter. A home is a question.

I was born in a city.  Not a real city, just one of those urban approximations which flicker across the map for a minute, briefly important, and then fade.  My city was ‘briefly important’ for its steel.  We were one of th