February 28, 2012
A seashell
is lightly colored
to blend in with the sand.
It is nearly invisible.

This seashell
has a few cracks and scratches
that it doesn’t want to be seen.
She has a lot of achievements,
but is seldom recognized for them.
She would rather be ignored for her accomplishments
than critiqued for every flaw.

This seashell
is an individual.
You could search the whole beach
and not find one similar.
She’s one of the few blondes in her family;
she’s a cheerleader that loves math.
Her goal is to become an actuarial scientist,
and she’s not afraid to walk alone.

This seashell
is buried in the sand,
easily overlooked.
She’s passed up in lines, ran into, and constantly ignored.
When she stand in line for a fitting room,
the attendant looks through her to the person behind.
She’s a chameleon to people’s eyes.
Her teachers called her Christine,
and sadly, so do members of her family.
I’m as overlooked as the “a” in my name.

This seashell
is stuck in the middle of the ocean and the beach.
Stuck in the middle of arguments,
which always seem to be my fault.
Stuck in the middle of decisions,
whether to let things hurt me
or stand up for myself.
Stuck in the middle of my desire for independence
and my need to be dependent.

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