Demure

Walking from the primary school steps,

A teacher stopped and asked me,

“Why are you this way, so gentle and nice?”

I shrugged stiffly, as I filled with glee.

When my parents heaped on all the praise

For being quiet, obedient, polite,

I started to flower on the inside,

Blossoming from their sudden delight.

So I folded within myself, quiet, demure

Tying their praise to my tiny self worth

Eager to almost fully disappear,

If it meant seeing their smiles, unearthed.

I shrank my sneezes to a polite sound,

Silenced my protests and natural humor.

Anything that could be misconstrued

As insolence or unruly behavior…

…Or joy or happiness or youth.

Or the growing pains and awkwardness

Of learning who you are in this world—

I stifled, fearful of any “backwardness.”

I mourn for that impressionable girl

Who was trapped in an adultified box,

Eager to become surefooted and alive

And break free from all those idealistic locks.

Sure she fit into her pressed school uniform.

Sure she did well in all her classes.

But who she was becoming mattered more

Than rules, discipline, or test passes.

Who she was simmered below the surface,

Primed and ready to be set free

She was strong, confident and lovely

A firework like the world would never see.