I've never escaped the middle, though I've fought my entire life.
They speak of my beauty, my 'spirit' -
fiery, my mother calls it -
but of my pain,
touch it, nor understand it,
as I am here in between
they stay away from certain mysteries.
I had a choice, so would I- but I own it.
Pretty as a
picture, they say, the ones like me on either side,
sincere, I fear,
but maybe I can't quite comprehend their actualities either.
A doll, I'm told,
so I bat my eyelashes - work it while it works,
until the rage
is more than I can bear,
I try and push my way into existence of name.
Screams are silent since
I've settled, but
form still - voiceless.
And yet, love, I know, so, though still fixed in destined order,
I've found my proper frame.