incomplete portrait of a life

She took her questions to her dad.
“Am I interesting? Am I beautiful? Do you enjoy my words? Do you enjoy me?”
She offered an invitation into her world, but the doorway was too small
And she had no magic potion to make it bigger.

She took her loneliness to her books and songs.
And read stories. And lived a better life in her head. And sang her heart out with imaginary dragons.

She took her heart to school.
And tried hardest of all to please. But red marks and prejudice taught the hopelessness of trying.  And she laid her pencil down.

She took her acceptance to girls.
Who required a boyfriend. So she left.

She took her humor to boys.
And fit right in. And stayed a while. And was seen. And protected. And delighted in. And became one of the luckiest girls alive.

She took her imperfection to religion.
And was taught the rigors of dirt removal. She learned the doctrines of “clean hands by hard effort.” But her hands never washed off. Instead her heart stopped beating.

She took her fear and control to children.
And demanded too much of them. And broke them, and herself, into a million pieces.

She took her honesty to friends.
And found acceptance and joy and heartbreak and love. Still wanting to be seen. Still wanting to be known. Still wanting to be enjoyed.
It might not be too late. It still could happen.

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