Dying in the face of insolence, and abuse is easy. The words crash into me familiar. The sounds and faces of my makers, all the same.
Remembering that I am better than that, remembering what I am is harder.
Ten faces, ten different ways to tell me I’m nothing. I believe them all.
One stranger, one way to bring me back to life, means everything. And I’m only now beginning to believe he might be real.
He was tall, and wore big boots. He seemed foreign, a different kind of species. His hair was messy and wild like an animal. His eyes piercing blue like ice. Like rules they must abide by.
He held his hand out, pronouncing words that meant things would be okay, this day would be alright.
He helped me to my feet, and we walked across the grass. He didn’t speak, not until he could form the words without the anger.
“I like your hair.” He said.
I touched my hair, the black flower sticking out to the side, now crumpled, and pulled it out. I took his hand and dropped it into his palm.
We sat in the sun, under the tree, not really saying anything. He read a book, and I tried not to cry.
“I won’t hurt you.” He said.