Here’s a poem that I wrote looking back on those teenage years. Growing pains, we all got them.
Sometimes I find it hard.
My problems seem bigger than me, too heavy for my arms.
My metaphorical muscles ache, and my mind feels stretched and dull,
but then I remember to breathe, to step back, rather than be seduced into a negative lull.
Is it always meant to hurt like this?
And am I meant to bleed?
Is my mind supposed to feel numb like this?
Does everyone always leave?
I don’t want to be a burden, but they said they wanted to know.
I told them what was happening, and then they wanted to go.
Amidst the diabetic sweetness of those tender teenage years,
I was not tickled pink by youthful girlhood,
Instead, I often carried with me un-cried tears.
My hair is black, and my skin is white.
My legs are short, and my hair is long.
My voice is gentle, but my fortitude is strong.
When I started to ask questions, things began to change;
negativity, sadness and an unusual sense of unfeeling – that too dropped away.
I realised that I had built up walls around myself,
and I had written on those walls,
but not messages of self-love, messages that confirmed society’s misguided rules.
How many others find themselves in such seas of uncertainty.
For everyday, society plants seeds – certainly.