March 15, 2017
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I used to think I wasn't a person,

Not a person, not a human,

That I didn't need to rely on the blood that ran through my veins or the oxygen in my chest,

I didn't realize how easy it would be to lose it,

How simple and scary mortality was,

I was the invincible girl, a wonder woman through my own eyes, Six years old and I didn't have a heart,

No delicate lungs, no destructible kidneys, no liver to be poisoned,

Not a single breakable bone tucked under my skin,

I could simply exist outside what was possible,

As less than my Father, yes,

But more than my brother, my sister,

Six years old and I pricked my finger on a garden rose,

Like sleeping beauty on the spindle,

That single break changed my world,

And I transformed into something that could be broken,

That could be hurt, that could die,

My mom took my hand and put her lips to the bandages,

She pressed words into my skin, healing words, she said,

And the whispers washed away the pain in fractions,

But six years old and I realized the pain wasn't too hard to bear, It was its existence, so stubborn and unbending,

That existence hardened my laugh, dried my smile,

I wasn't invincible anymore, and I couldn’t be ever again,

I understood, but that became the problem,

Six years old; closer to sixty years old,

What a shame, I understood.

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