Growing up—
meant learning how to slay demons
from the inside out.
Not with magic.
With madness.
With mood swings.
With memory.

I’m not soft.
I’m a sword.
One that fought a battle
against unforgiving Nazis.
Not the ones in textbooks—
the ones that live in families.
In systems.
In silence.

Today,
I wear different skin.
It fits.
Mostly.
It shelters the steel.

I’m a knife
that was thrown at a dartboard—
bad aim.
But I cut clean.
I slice veggies.
I slice meat.
I fed myself with the same hands
that once begged to be broken.

I’m a needle.
Stuck into tied wood.
I bled the forest red.
I painted my bed in wildfire—
not to burn,
but to say:
This pain is real. This canvas is mine.

I’m the sword
lost in the hands of a wounded soldier.
The knife
dropped in a river
where everything floats,
but nothing’s ever
reached.

We misjudge depth.
Of thoughts.
Of people.
Of ourselves.

I’m a needle again—
ripping thread
so clothing can breathe.
So I can breathe.

I’m this thing
that wants to fly
but be tethered.
I’m Twitter when it still meant
shouting into the void
and hearing something back.

I’m a kite.
I dance with the wind,
but I always feel
the pull of the string.

Fly high,
Julie.

Fly high.