Manners.
The underpinning foundations
of my character.
Each brick laid,
cemented by behaviour
and a continual rhetoric
of pleases and thank you’s;
letters and notes
dictated by elders,
concerned and ruled
by the opinions of others.
Irony, the cladding
of superficial politeness.
Made to worry
about what others thought;
anxiety taught
from such a young age.
Language is never innocent.
Words braided
into the hair of young girls.
‘Be good!’
Little Red Riding Hood
eaten by the Big, Bad Wolf.
It’s wrong
to love yourself
too much.
Be confident,
but not too confident
lest others think
you know more
and judge you.
Toe the proverbial line
always.
Your reflection,
an illusion;
a hall of mirrors
obscuring yours
and everyone else’s truth,
making you short-sighted.
You overlook yourself,
blinded,
yet continually reminded,
that being good enough
is something to aspire to.
Being, always
just out of reach,
that idyllic beach
photo-shopped only,
in the pages
of glossy misinformation.
shiny pebbles 