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The Changeling's Lament by Shira Lipkin

the girl's voice





the changeling voice





I have studied so hard

to pass as one of you.

I've spent a lifetime on it.



I have tells.

Blisters, tremors, bruises,

all the signs that I was not meant for your world,

was not meant to be contained

in your clothes,

your shoes.

I have this terribly inconvenient allergy

to cold iron.

Hives, really.

Welts.

I stand out.



When I was little,

I asked my alleged mother,

what's a girl?



She said

you,

you're a girl,

and she laced me into dresses

(that I tore off in the school parking lot,

in line for the bus).

Laced me into ballet shoes

that left blisters

and bloodied my feet

until I had calluses.

Which she had filed off,

beauticians pinning me down,

because it's not beauty

if you don't bleed.



My dancing was different.

My dancing was swaying treelike,

or launching myself across the room,

spinning madly,

but that is not what girls do,

not human girls,

not ladylike,

not contained.



And everything

is about containment

is about being delicate

and pretty

laced into corsets

whalebone stays digging into your ribs

because it's not beauty

if it doesn't hurt.



But I studied.

I pretended.

I hid the bruises

and the tics.

I hid the big dark parts of me.

I tamed my hair.

I watched my mouth.

I hid my magic.

I did not speak of such things

because we do not speak of such things –

not anger,

not homesickness,

not longing.

Not this sense

that I don't know what the hell

a human girl is

and I can tell, I can,

that everyone knows I don't belong here.

I laugh too loud;

I am too fast or slow to laugh.

I am an anthropologist in the field of girl.

I study

but none of it

ever comes

naturally.



None of it is in my nature.



I am something larger,

more fluid,

less constrained.

But I am stranded in this place.

I have had to learn how to live here.

I have tried.

So hard.





I have studied so hardto pass as one of you.I've spent a lifetime on it.I have tells.Blisters, tremors, bruises,all the signs that I was not meant for your world,was not meant to be containedin your clothes,your shoes.I have this terribly inconvenient allergyto cold iron.Hives, really.Welts.I stand out.When I was little,I asked my alleged mother,She saidand she laced me into dresses(that I tore off in the school parking lot,in line for the bus).Laced me into ballet shoesthat left blistersand bloodied my feetuntil I had calluses.Which she had filed off,beauticians pinning me down,because it's not beautyif you don't bleed.My dancing was different.My dancing was swaying treelike,or launching myself across the room,spinning madly,but that is not what girls do,not human girls,not ladylike,not contained.And everythingis aboutis about being delicateand prettylaced into corsetswhalebone stays digging into your ribsbecause it's not beautyif it doesn't hurt.But I studied.I pretended.I hid the bruisesand the tics.I hid the big dark parts of me.I tamed my hair.I watched my mouth.I hid my magic.I did not speak of such thingsbecause we do not speak of such things –not anger,not homesickness,not longing.Not this sensethat I don't know what the hella human girl isand I can tell, I can,that everyone knows I don't belong here.I laugh too loud;I am too fast or slow to laugh.I am an anthropologist in the field of girl.I studybut none of itever comesnaturally.None of it is in my nature.I am something larger,more fluid,less constrained.But I am stranded in this place.I have had to learn how to live here.I have tried.So hard. Shira Lipkin is a writer, activist, mother, and nexus. She has managed to convince Electric Velocipede, Chizine, Interfictions 2, Mythic Delirium, and other otherwise-sensible magazines and anthologies to publish her short fiction and poetry. She lives in Boston with her family and the requisite cats, fights crime with the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center, is taking suggestions for her burlesque name, does six impossible things before breakfast, and would like a nap now. You can track her movements at



Read Shira's discussion of this poem over at the Roundtable!



If you enjoyed this poem, please consider donating a few dollars to help Stone Telling continue, and showcase many more fantastic and diverse voices!



Photography:



is a writer, activist, mother, and nexus. She has managed to convince, and other otherwise-sensible magazines and anthologies to publish her short fiction and poetry. She lives in Boston with her family and the requisite cats, fights crime with the Boston Area Rape Crisis Center, is taking suggestions for her burlesque name, does six impossible things before breakfast, and would like a nap now. You can track her movements at shiralipkin.com and shadesong.livejournal.com . Please do. She likes the company.If you enjoyed this poem, please consider donating a few dollars to help Stone Telling continue, and showcase many more fantastic and diverse voices! Untitled , by Graham Blackall.