Seventeen years of hatred, all bundled in
My mind, Seventeen years of being bottom of
The pile, playing second fiddle to all those
Considered to be better.
Nothing is perfect, especially not me, an emotional
Creature who likes nothing more than to curl
Up into a book worm under a wooly blanket.
Perfection itself is utterly too perfect. I could
Be a blue butterfly but I’m scarcely more than a moth,
I could be wise but I’m no owl, I used to be unhappy
And that made me a fool.
I am exactly what I want to be, I’ve realised it at last:
A Human who is capable of producing logic and then
Ignoring it entirely by following my Heart, she who
Falls ever frequently into deep Love.
No more, I’ve realised at last.