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In my hands is a cloak. An invisible, tangible darkness well-worn and old. Caught in a moment of rage at indescribable things I picked it up and wore it proud while cutting skin and bleeding mind.
But black-eyed and mouth open wide, you spoke to me in the wee hours of morning, fighting for justice with all your might. Not false self, but true self… true blue. Caught and stuck for years under painted eyes and a silent scream.
I’m sorry.
I was born to laugh and be joyful. I was not born for shadows and rage. But I felt it, I felt it in my tiny fists. I felt the need to know sorrow as I cut deep into my own skin and hugged the shadows like a warm blanket of knowing. I was wrong.
I was wrong. And I let the ghost of lies seep in and plague me. Seep in and silence myself, seep in and take fake form over truth.
Until you came and shook me. And woke me up.
“No more. No more.”
Release.
Little girl, 8 years old, kicks my shin.
She sits on my lap, curls up, arms around my neck. “I love you.”
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.
“It’s okay. Move on.”
She is defiant with laughter and a courageous hope for her destiny.
She is me.
