Five years old
I could not speak
My tongue, glued to
the roof of my mouth
And my cupid's bow lips
quivering with unfounded fear
A feeling that I could not
connect – could not fit
the mold that had already
set.

I moved through the years
A sprite of quiet pretenses
Both shielding myself and
unknown to myself
A feeling that I was
Too real, too present
outside of myself

Even when the years wore on
This selfsame sensation
transported itself too
What I wanted to say
and what I said were divided
I tremble and I stutter and I
still can't fit the mold.
Only a liquid cure can ever
ease the pangs, but I won't rely
on that.

Instead, I tell myself
It's better this way.
I am an enigma to be discovered
If you will only try.
Slowly, I think I am knowing myself.
A quiet exterior but inwardly
A loud booming that will sound forever.