Poem: What make me human?
What makes me human by Hilary Botwright
I lie in bed and caress my ribs, the smooth ebony as
hard as piano keys. Questions overwhelm. Why?
I am two people. I am a thousand people. I am a
pathetic, broken soul, battered by the pain of the
world; fighting a furious civil war with myself where
there is no victor. Yet I am also the girl who
finds beauty in a fragile sapling. I am the girl who
experiences a delicious thrill as the sun silently slides into
the sky. I am the girl awed by two geese who
penetrate the morning air as if they own
it and we are yet to find out. I am the girl
fascinated by the 6.42 train to Kings
Cross – dreams, hopes and fears shuttling
along in the half light of dawn. I am the girl
who sees every plate of food looming
as poison.
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