As you grow up they begin to warn you that your body will change, as if change isn't a constant, as if caterpilers don't turn into butterflies and the winters doesn't turn into the spring. What they dont warn you about is when you begin to question what it means to be confined by your flesh and bone. I don't care if my body changes, am I not still trapped? Why was I not warned of the horrors that lay in wait inside my own head? Why must I be told about the hair on my body and not the growing need to write every feeling down? No, I am shuned because of my feelings, and encouraged by my body. I am mature now. I am made to be looked at, not thought of.

To hear you are a tapestry of everyone you've ever known sounds beautiful, endearing. But what happens when my laugh begins to change? It's not my laugh anymore. And what of my voice? The cadence in which I answer questions seems to not be my own. And yet, I don't remember how it was before. I find that every time I open my mouth I hear her speak. Where have I gone? Was I ever there? How is it possible to be my own individual when my laugh is from him, my rage hers, my cries theirs? I am not simply a tapestry I carefuly weaved, each person and each piece of myself together as one, but rather a new piece is hastily stitched on by a hand much beyond myself. I am given no choice, no warning, and as I see it, no way to rip those patches off. And the moment they become warn, or decidedly ugly, a new piece of fabric is laced on top with very little care, simply to cover the worse part of myself.