Is it me? The shy one? I think I have misunderstood the world all along. I am the one who dances in the street, smells the vase of flowers in the store, smiles at you while you stare at the floor.

I was the one with clipped wings. Tied to the whipping post. Your tongue lashes to martyr my soul.

Remember me? I had forgotten all my dreams. My star dust blanketing the streets. Then you came along, swept up the fun, looked my way. I curtsied, bowed to the floor. Flowers thrown in the air.

Yes. It is me. Up there on stage. Grateful you entered the door.

Poetry

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