By Izabella K. North
I was the girl who slipped through the cracks.
I wrote pages to cover their tracks –
Of grace for my mother, and peace with the pain,
Of gratitude that blooms in spite of the rain.
All of it matters, but those chapters are done;
Their stories have faded, and mine has begun.
This is a bold reclamation of youth –
Of the raw, heavy weight of unfiltered truth.
The pages are stripped and the mirrors are bare,
No performative profile or mask left to wear.
No perfectionist plea in a quest to be loved,
No gentle voice our scholars approved.
Here I am, neither friend nor foe.
But the ghost of the images that you used to know –
An imposter unleashing the secrets I kept,
While you bought the illusion and silently slept.
Call me irresponsible, immature, and blind –
I am all that you think of, and nothing you’ll find.
I challenge your eyes to accept what is changed.
To see me as whole, through pieces arranged.
The choice of our fate, rests in your hand.
I claim my own justice and take my last stand.
May my voice break the quiet, to ring loud and true –
To shatter the shackles that long held you too.
