He is enamel I am granite
He is smooth, a comforting, cool, slick clean touch on sick days; I am grounded but feel rough and coarse. I haven’t evolved, he is polished.
I take care to look after, I stain and tarnish easily. He can be easily cleaned and buffed to be good as new. Nothing sticks to him.
He is gloss, a coat that strangles imperfections, that shines a bright, blinding light and deflects. He is grounding but not the ground.
I am granite. I am earth and natural. I have a deep guttural roar. In my depths is a roar filled with injustice and pain and fibrous indignation. I bear the weight on suppressing a scream so loud it would blow the clouds across the sky, so strong it would blow the sun out like a candle on all the birthday cakes I never got.
I am the elements. I have emotions that aren’t clever, unevolved from Greek gods and just as mighty in their force. He is refined. He speaks words that need interpretation even though we speak the same language.
A judge says ‘he is a very intelligent man, I can see why he grew frustrated with her.’
I am shameful. I am a smear of dirt on an aristocratic cloth. I am the cause of an apology.
Look up the definition of shame and you will see me there. I am the grinning buffoon, the weirdo, the hinderance, the youngest mistake in a family tree.
I am the canker and the only branch that grew cancer. They would like to weed me out.
I believe in magic and myths and bags of tricks that bring healing. I believe my people exist in the woods and beyond the waves and across the skys.
I believe in stories, in good, in love, in fearceness and fairytales. In colouring over lines,in children being deafingly heard and celebrated, in sanctuary in disorder, dens and magic.
Am I granite? Or am I chalk that draws ideas onto boards and pavements, that gives gymnasts a grip before their flips?
I am of this earth yet otherworldly. Maybe that’s why I don’t fit in. Perhaps my people are spread across space and time. Maybe I will always be alone