I was born a barefoot child.
Ready for adventure.
Ready to climb the highest tree without anyone around because the view was for me and me alone.
I was born to hate smiling until it was coaxed out of me by realizing it made others happy.
I was born a hater of milk: the smell, the taste, the way it’s milky white and cold or worse, warm.
I was born to be independent, wanting what I want and not caring if others thought it wasn’t up to their standards.
I was born with a love of running as fast as my legs would take me.
And born with a shyness that led to keeping my passions secrets lest someone misunderstand them.
I was born to think flowers were fascinating, the way the petals felt like velvet and the pollen fell off like colored dust.
I was born to love ripped jeans, because they ripped from so much play.
I was born to love the summer for its sweet heat, lazy afternoons, and tanned skin.
I was born a lover of mangoes, but only cut the way my grandmother would cut them, each half sliced into cubes that stuck to the skin so when you made the skin convex, the cubes were easy to eat.
I was born a lover of cooking & baking, particularly if it meant I could stir and lick the spoon.
I was born a lover of dogs, much more thoughtful than we give them credit for.
I was born a lover of the beach, sand in my hair and salt on my lips.
I was born a reader, books being devoured for hours in lieu of sleep food or work.
And I was born to write secret poems that explained how I felt when my emotions couldn’t find a way to define themselves.
I was born wanting to stand out, because conformity annoys me.
I was born self-sufficient, even if I had to learn things the hard way, I was going to learn them myself.
I was born a secret introvert, turning corners to find hidden paths where I just pondered to myself.
I was born confused about love, how to define it, how to give it, and how to tell if I had any of it at all.
I was born with tears that appear rarely, if ever, and more so in moments of complete and utter rage.
And I was born with a persona that didn’t like to show when it was inflicted with pain.
I was born wanting to save animals, to save lives, to save families by rationale and law.
And I was born wondering if I was ever capable of what I wanted to do.
I was born with hair so curly that I wished it to be straight until I realized it wasn’t all that bad after all.
I was born with an innate love for the person who would need me most, but I’m not sure whether or not I’ve found them yet.
I was born to love long showers bordering on scalding, but not baths. Long, longgggg showers.
I was born stubborn.
I was born with the spirit of a fighter but the exhaustion rate of a small sparkler.
I was born to love fireworks.
I was born to believe that love existed, but not entirely convinced that I would find it.
I’m still not entirely convinced.
I was born to understand that alone did not mean lonely, but I find I keep forgetting that now.
I was born to be intrigued by the site of blood.
And to secretly believe that mermaids exist.
I was born to have a soul older than the number of my age.
I was born with the tendency to ignore calls of my name, just because my mouth was too tired to move and staying in oblivion sounded much more appealing.
I was born wanting it to stay light outside 24 hours a day.
I was born with the favorite color green, because of the trees.
And because most girls liked pink.
I was born with the question ‘Why?’ on repeat in my head; it’s never stopped.
But most inherently, innately, importantly
I was born a barefoot child.