I dreamed

I was unworthy,

that my mind was lost.

Criticism became fact,

fiction, a mindless pursuit

as I molded myself;

folding and squeezing

every surplus part of me,

until I was small,

so small,

that I fitted neatly

into another’s box.

The stars above my bed

cast shadows

on the stage,

where I sat

with my back

to the baying audience.

My inner child

was labeled

too childish.

too much,

too loud,

for their adult world.

The room suddenly

as empty

as my mind.

I flinched

as integrity

tried to embrace me,

her touch alien

to my heart.

Yet her kind words

reassured me,

her breath

brushing my skin,

her accepting touch,

tucking a loose strand of hair

behind my ear,

before leading me back to myself.

Waking me up

from my disloyal sleep,

where I had fallen,

inadvertently,

into the depths

of another’s make-believe world.