It started with a girl—
Differently wired,
Her hands, her heart
Moved to rhythm the world didn't always catch.

As I watched her,
she loved,
and smiled
Simply as she was.

At first sight,
I am unable to comprehend—
Though uneasy,
Grateful still for life.

As I watch,
I traced her face with my eyes
Studied her closely.

I asked myself
about the questions
she asks herself.

I wonder—
If she says,
“Why can't I just be normal?”
If she whispers,
“I wish I could stand, I wish I could speak”
“Why must must I be differently-abled?"

I wonder if she questions her existence,
Measures her worth
Against the ordinary,
Against the ease
With which the world moves

Then I wonder—
What truly is normality.

It is jarring
that I, too, ask the same question.

And I weigh my own fate,
Against the ease of others,
and ask the same
“whys” or “what ifs.”

So if she is told she is less,
and if she asked to be normal,

Why should the so-ordinary
question the same fate
when our destinies
are completely different?

And I wonder—
Have we mistaken being normal,
or do we all carry the same question
even with our different fates?

Which is it?

Are we to be grateful either way,
or does one have the right to ask
while the other must be silenced?

They say those altered in form have it worse
than the ones who seem whole,
but I see her echo differently—
And in that echo,
She is whole.

I’ve noticed
you haven’t written poetry in a while —
at least, not published any.
You’ve gone quiet.

And yet, without words,
you’re still poetic.
It’s stronger than you.

You only ever wrote about our love.
Now that I’m gone,
you’ve lost your inspiration.

Thank you —
I’m flattered.

But please,
go back to writing.
I’m still here.
I miss your poems
making my heart skip beats
every morning.

i tried
i planted the seeds
watered them
let the sun in
pulled the weeds

the garden bloomed

but what should have been
flowers and love
turned into
discord and confusion

so i choose
the hardest thing
and the bravest—
to leave the garden behind

hope has grown heavy
lemons fill the branches
and i will not
make lemonade

yes it hurts
to let go
of what i tended
with such care

but i cannot
live a lie