Do you see?
There she goes
that innocent girl,
a rule follower and honest to a fault,
With a heart that doesn't even lay on her sleeve
but in her outstretched hand and in her eyes.
Never taken a sip of the poison
never breathed the cancer in and let it out again
never kissed and thereby never done more than kissing,
by all accounts she's unspoiled,
pure as the hope that was left in Pandora's box.
That purity of hers,
Or maybe I should say naivety,
is as blinding as the sun's rays are to her light blue eyes.
And, though you probably know,
That girl is sappy.
She cries at sad stories and melancholic movies,
absorbs Ted Talks and listens to Peace Corps podcasts.
More than anything though she aches.
She aches for the world
from her high tower and plans,
yearns for the day she can make a difference.
A difference beyond the borders of her small community.
If the world wants saving
Then she wants to be the one to save it.
She doesn't see that the world is out to corrupt her,
to twist her desires and the words she holds dear
until she doesn't recognize herself anymore.
that is what people tell her the world wants.
Did you hear?
They tell her that her ruin is inevitable.
It is her one and only destiny
and with where she's going,
she can't hold off the corruption much longer.
She'll lift the poison to her lips,
breathe in the cancer and let it out again,
have her kiss and private possessions given away
all because others want her to
and the world she loves won't accept her until she does.
Because until she does,
she won't be like them.
I recognize that girl.
In fact I don't just recognize her
I know her as the face reflected in my mirror
because I am her.
These are the things told to me
as my departure for college draws near.
They say sweet girl,
you can't stop it.
Just give in.
Their words could be a self fulfilling prophecy.
Even still I tell them no.
It won't go that way,
They can't be certain.
Because if they were certain,
they'd have given up all hope of protecting me
long time ago.
There it is.
Here comes the realization.
I see that their words aren't out to wound me
or to try and tear me down before I've even begun.
I can see myself now as they see me.
I am the thing they never imagined could exist
in a world they feel is extremely twisted.
I am them before they were themselves now.
They tell me I will be corrupted
because they see themselves as corrupted.
They don't see themselves as I see them:
I think they are beautiful.
I think they are inspiring.
I think they are human,
and that all of those are the same thing.
For that reason I forgive them for trying to hurt me
before others could hurt me,
because they thought the words would be easier to bear
if they came from a place of love.
writing out their words has made them hurt less,
something I never thought possible
because I thought the only truth I'd find
was that the words of others are meant to hurt.
I am grateful for my new found freedom,
as now I can give those weary warriors of life comfort,
tell all that I appreciate their concern
instead of getting angry over nothing
and making words out to be my enemy.
I owe you--my dear Poetry,
for doubting the liberation of letters strung together
To form a sentence.
And I owe you--my dear Poetry,
a thank you
for letting me get lost
and yet never too lost
so that I can always find the path
leading back to me.