A shadow wanders among others, 

In it a heart and mind and poison and dark angry rainbows, just as any being.

She was innocent once. Perhaps would it have never changed?

What sums up its existence to the rest of the world 

Is its charcoal outline. They walk past,

Sneering or frowning silently, the quiet slowly becoming ominous and cruel

And she shudders as the thoughts fly above her head, well beyond her reach

But somewhere within her line of sight. 

They believe themselves everything, the light and feathers and hope, or they don't.

There is no way to tell.

They could never understand, she thinks. As long as she has lived, they have been the enemy.

And in this way nobody finds the truth.

They think her less than human. She thinks them far too much more than human.

Yet not one of them is more than human. Not one of them is any less than that.

A shadow could be anyone. Not one of us has a blurb on their back cover;

Not one of us can be summarized, or deserves to be.

Not one of us is anything less than human.

But we cannot pretend we are greater than we are.

We are nothing more than human.