She stumbles along the corridors
of her life and is slightly ashamed.
She hides, sticks to the walls;
head down, eyes lowered.
Her stride mimics her esteem:
insecure; weak; damaged.

Living in a world where
hate is celebrated
and love is seen as weak.
She is confused, insecure.
Her tears comfort her;
the pain reassures
she is alive.
In absence of tears
she feels dead:
they make her feel like that.

She avoids mirrors;
dodges photos.
Sits at the back, mute,
no attention is good attention,
she says to her teddy bear friend.

But she always believed.

She found an equal.
Her dead spirit was raised
from the grave of
corridors and classrooms.
Her tears dried up;
the clouds began to fade.
She never knew
the sun was so bright and hot.

She was saved.
Saved by self-discovery
of inner beauty
magazines dare not talk of:
saved by her
Insecurity Security.