There once was a girl with curls in her hair, who got teased more than most and pretended not to care. But she kept the words inside and let them fester a bit, then adjusted her appearance based on how those words deemed fit. Got clothes to conceal what they said was the matter, straightened her hair, hid her ears, attempted for certain parts not to look fatter.

But this got tiring, it didn’t seem to fit, and one day when watching the rain, she decided to quit. So confronting the words, she pushed back her hair, got piercings in ears, started wearing dresses again, thought maybe she could go back to what she’d been. And she’d like to say now that now all of those words don’t matter, but she still can’t let some go, listening to them to choose what will flatter.

(because sometimes you feel as fragile as the fall leaves clinging to life, sprouting from tawny spines, reaching up with childlike fingers in an attempt to feel warmth from a cloud-shrouded sun).


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