They used to call me a tornado (but uttered it like it was a compliment).
I wasn’t the cyclone.
It was the world that spun around me.
I used to spin in circles because it fucked with my equilibrium and that was an addiction as a kid – looking for kicks when abandoned by society.
All this probably sounds dramatic, but I am a poet and our words are worth more than your sapphires and garnets.
She taught me to stop spinning by telling me I was
killing brain cells.
(This was after she already told me that I was half-genius, half developmentally-disabled. & I believed her because what would she gain by
feeding me lies.)
I was chaos and a storm because I didn’t understand life’s tempo. Always out of rhythm. My lines didn’t rhyme. My step didn’t match.
(And as a child, all I wanted was to be normal.)
I never saw myself as beautiful. Just an oddity.
I thought myself an alien (maybe home was a galaxy beyond ours). Maybe I was not meant to exist on a planet with this much oxygen.
All I knew was each day, it was getting harder to breathe & everyone expected me to conform.
Some girls don’t fit the mold. Some aren’t sugar & spice & all things nice.
Some are made of hurricane winds, curious minds, & licks of fire.
(Some are an arsonist’s fantasy and a meteorologist’s nightmare.)