This Little Mermaid

It was only twelve years ago,

when out the words began to flow;

unrelated, exaggerated, frosted with a rhyme

Journaled by her mother,

To all who could hear, she'd uncover,

tales of deers, and dimes,

flowers, space and time.

But children grow,

And expectations do, too,

And this little mermaid

who's voice could once decimate man,

who was once drawn onto maps to warn Western explorers of

trecherous waters,

but is no more, 

delicately wrapped her tongue,

her rhymes,

in salty seaweed.

And her opinions became questions

and 

Her heart became hollow.

But she still loved words

loved them with all her heart

loved them when they were sweet

and even when they were tart.

She still had the rhyme but didn't know

where it went

didn't even know

that it didn't need to be spent.

Her words could be fluid

unburdened by structure

and with paper and pencil

she took the reigns.

She began to write

Because words made her feel big.

She dove headfirst into the ocean,

her scales scraping salty water that burned her eyes

and healed her cuts

and filled her ears, which

muffled out all of the hate

And so she just kept swimming.

Swimming.