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My clumsy tongue skips, trips,
falling over words. Like a toddler
on unsteady legs, trying to
find balance.

"Tres," she says. "Tray," I say.
"Non, non," comes the emphatic shake
of her head. "Treeeeghs," is the noise
she wants.

"Tray." I try again. "Traaagh."
She sighs through a smile and moves on. I sigh and glance out of the
window glass.

I long to speak freely in my
native tongue. It's been with me
since birth, and I love it like an old,
well-loved blanket.

It is the language I
craft in. The language I use
to spin my stories and poems. It is
my web.

It is the language I use
to say "I love you." The language I use to speak out in, to
change things.

It is the language I read in,
the language I use to explore
vast lands with, and go on
grand adventures.

But maybe, just maybe,
I can learn to like this new,
foreign language. Maybe it will someday be
my language.



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