I am not as interesting as I seem:
Once I believed that I was funny, kind and that people found me interesting
But you have set the record straight.
I can never forget what you taught me.
What I had mistaken for leopard print was merely poke-a-dots.
My child like ways, simply childishness.
Compassion as weakness.
In the end, even the sound of my voice made me think I had done something wrong.
So now that you are gone, why do I still hear your voice?
Why do I fear what others will see in me?
What if they see what you saw?
Will they feel the same? What if you were right?
I don’t believe the things that I once did.
I get tired of fighting your voice in my head.
Because some part of me believes you;
Believes that I am less than ordinary.
A crow among nightingales.
Amanda C Nov 2012