She bites her fingernails in math class The numbers have always been a dancing cacophony of confusion. She was dyslexic and the vignette of her vision were all the things she couldn’t understand— even when she wanted to.
Her lips weren’t the kind poets would write about either. They weren’t soft, and red like cherry, they weren’t velvety— they were always chapped. They were never inviting. She’s grown so fond of peeling the skin off until they bled out the silhouette of anxiety washing her insides causing external decay.
But there was no external decay in coloring outside the lines. In 1st grade her teacher had told her that maybe something was wrong with her— but maybe its the unfolding of protest in the early days. Where little me believed that things do not have to be perfect to be beautiful— to deserve to be seen as art. There’s poems you could write about at the sight of coffee stained sheets or faulty flickering streetlights or collected dust that had found home in book shelves in bedrooms. The little things that counted were the little things that kept the flame alive. Maybe the sun doesn’t shine for us, but the world in its vastness conforms to the reality that there are beautiful things in life we are still yet to discover— nestled in between the cracks we don’t step on.
In church she cracks her knuckles. She found god more in navigating through life and survival from mishaps as opposed to sitting on a pew and being told about how she could go to hell. And in the lightest of days she hums. She hums along the rhythm of the abstract and imperfect structure of life. Which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence and misery in the world, but despite the abundance of it.