Bending to Belong

Bending to Belong

She is a whisper, she is a storm,

A thousand selves in shifting form.

The mirror bends, the echoes stray,

A different voice for every day.

Before the kind, she stands so tall,

A fluent grace, composed through all.

But in the shadow of command,

She folds like paper in a hand.

A lover’s touch—she blooms, she sings,

A fearless bird with open wings.

Yet when the air is sharp with doubt,

She shrinks, she stutters, looking out.

Some call her soft, some say she's steel,

But none have seen the whole made real.

For when they leave, their backs are turned,

Another self has re-emerged.

She does not lie, she does not scheme,

She drifts between like waking dreams.

Not made of glass, not fully whole,

A patchwork quilt, a borrowed soul.

And though she longs to just be one,

To hold her ground, to come undone—

The world demands a changing face,

And so she bends to fit its shape.