by Nick Gisburne
They tell her she is feeble, fragile, weak,
That everlasting fear will be her fate.
Belittled, tricked, too hesitant to speak,
She shivers in a drab, declining state.
They never see her fuzzy little friend.
Invisible, his kisses crush the hate.
So many shameful maladies to mend,
But he, with perfect patience, whispers, “Wait.”
She wakes, in wonder, every demon dead,
The voices silenced, all but one, her own.
Her friend, the fuzzy freak inside her head,
Is happy she can laugh, at last, alone.
A special day. She wears her special dress,
And dances in the murder and the mess.
