There are many shelves in the rooms of my heart;
most of them are made of agonies and compressed pains,
the largest, are folded up, pressed down
till they overflow their brims.
It was the virtual me people loved,
the glowing, plastic smiling me.
Until they found out the real me
the one hidden in shelves:
shelves of myself.
To them, I am an outcast,
the one punished by the earth’s deity
I am neither a girl nor a boy
I belong somewhere in between
At eleven, my oranges bulged
just like my figure eight did
but my tomatoes didn’t form well
a banana was forming there.
When my friends discovered,
I became a laughing stock
I became crushed like fallen fragmented glasses
and began piling pieces of myself
hiding them within shelves.
I found solace in silence
Waiting for my ambassadors of hope
when I would inhale some fresh air
when I can fly my colours
in all shades, without jeers and taunts.