Sometimes I am smaller
and oh so much harder to love
and sometimes I am stronger
than I ever could have hoped.
But more often, more often I am nothing
when something is all I want to be.
I come close to being
and run away afraid
because they’ll all hate the real me.
What of the heart that doesn’t know itself
or of the words we never speak?
What am I when they take away that breath
that I try to teach myself to breathe?
The answers will be brighter in the morning,
I hope,
when I finally come up to see.
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