I never tried to wear it as a badge.
Of loss, or honour, or shame or hurt?
Though like its pin, each one has pricked my skin,
and I cannot deny this.

Of course it must have shaped our clay,
the moulding of our being.
And dipped us in the liquid glaze,
then fired us in the furnace.

I didn’t know how set apart I’d feel,
upstage from those around me.
It’s not conceived, to make a scene
I’m not learning new lines daily.

I’ll give my hand to those who look,
and see the heart within me.
The me it made is just the deal,
Our cards all fall differently.