I Was Told

I Was Told

I know my life used to be a textbook.

People said this was right and that was wrong,

that there was good and here was bad-

But I just I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

When I was four, They told me to put a bow in my hand

And of course that’s what I did.

I mean, I guess it felt right for a while

To read black spiders on the pages and draw perpendicular lines-

But as my fingers bled churning storms at one-sixteenth-note-equals-92-beats-per-second,

I realized then that I was only told.

When I was six, They told me to be like the best

And so I looked to my only sister.

I didn’t notice it for many years,

How They made us into the same person-

But when started to hate dressing the same talking the same learning the same being the VERY same

I found out myself that I was only doing as I was told.

When I was ten, They told me to be a swimmer

And so I did what I had to do.

I thought it was okay ‘cause even my mom wanted me to;

but though I loved swirling tsunamis and torpedoing through the deep,

I grew tired of cement tired of pyramids tired of parties for one...

And knew this wasn’t going to be me.

When I was thirteen, I put down my bow,
picked a new shirt,

And put away the wings that flew me across the water.

I wanted to know how to drop to the ceiling and jump up to the floor-

But really, I just didn't like the girl with brown eyes but dark caverns,

a huge smile but no words.

Oh, I never liked being told-

And now, at fourteen,

I know that nothing I do is written in a book.