Copyright © 2013 The Wrought Writer
She wrapped herself in the crooks of looks and nooks of books, cloaked her face with hair misplaced, hid her smile, for a while, in the cover of much denial.
She grew small it seemed, making her way, suppressing things dreamed. They laughed at things she thought she’d hid, talked about things she never really did.
Friends were enemies and enemies the same, taunted by voices not knowing her name. Lonely a thing she came to grasp well, a soft blanket she knit out of personal hell.
She didn’t know kind and missed out on close, pieces of heart limply strung by a ghost.
Until a day one reached out, offered the help she’d lived without. A strong hand extended, a friendship made, a thing never had, a wish that wouldn’t fade.
It’s all it took to live and love, because of this she rose above…the hurt, the pain all overcame, the weak, the cursed, all reversed.
She ate from the orchards of strength and pride, found a new life, chose to decide…to believe she had worth and deserved a new birth, to start things anew, become what is true.
Not one to forget what it is to be small; she’ll be there when needed, a net for a fall.