I never got to know who I would really be.

The day was pure, I went to play and lift me brown-eyed brave;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My cousin was not home, but his father was,
who offered to show curious me something;
I never got to know who I would really be.

Taking my hand, up we went into that shadowed bedroom;
I never got to know who I would really be.

There I cried and nearly died as breath and trust drained away,
and then he finished;
I never got to know who I would really be.

With all my four-year might, I barely stood,
trembling friendless for a lifetime,
waiting and wishing for the end of me that never came,
frozen by the echoes of his whistling;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My light and trust twisted numb, and I became,
in that sacrificial horror, unwantedly wise;
I never got to know who I would really be.

My nature heart and caring head left for other worlds,
replaced by unwanted imitations,
strange deliveries from the unknown;
I never got to know who I would really be.

The rest of my life unfolded in starker silence,
hidden tears, and lurking fears, later liberated
for short, surprised, and sublime times
by the fairest love of two women,
safe children, their adoring little ones,
and a few determined adventures now and then,
hinting of the lost;
I never got to know who I would really be.

But now I write it all, and from my defiant and disobedient depth
consider, when I can, what imagining did for me
and never came true,
to stand and say and show
who I have become anyway.

This is my private anthem to my beloved self,
though
I never got to know
who that boy might really be.