Date: 07/26/2014 at 13:59
From: Tumbler Tillie, Blade Dancer
To : Everyone
Subj: Foreigner

Tiny hands that never noticed their slightly different shape and width-
clasped together, both seemed so small,
both riddled with calluses,
both infested with blisters.
Twenty fingernails in all, coated and caked with dirt.

Fiery flames of matted red hair - it all looked the same, then:
Just like ruddy cheeks and freckles,
dimpled smiles and winded faces,
blood rising from running, chasing goats through farmer's lands,
tiny hands clasping tiny hands.

The mountains and valleys - our toy and toil - treated us as equals -
Gifting us with scabs and scrapes,
identically, we bled,
and scars left behind, they left white lines tracing the skin over our veins.

Now I am "foreigner."

Gem-bright eyes dart the other way whenever I clamber through their hills.
Their mountains.
Their shops.
Their Temple.
Hands now slightly larger - hands that still echo my own - now grip the shoulders of their children,
and jerk them the other way.


The sound of their tongue feeling numb and desperate from my throat
forgotten, useless
different, now that I am grown.

I am slightly taller
I am Human
I am so distinctively, outwardly "not"
And that is what makes me foreign.

My heart still beats like a hammer
my blood still runs the same deep, ruby red -
and my scars paint a past riddled from work
we once called "play"

We once were friends
We once were young

And now I understand that youth may know no difference -
But Time pays that price
and fills me with regret and shame -
and "same" is no longer that blissful "same."

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Valnuary, in the year 660 AF.