The Wrong Child

I come from a- a playground, with rickety swings
that soared higher and higher-
but I could never fly;
from afternoons in the bushes, among all the flowers,
but there were never any lilies, never any-
no petunias.
I come from the younger days of
bizarre plants budding and blooming
and budding again ‘til I whispered stop-
and she would comply;
from a room always out of sorts, wanting to be the result of more
than one girl, the summer clothes and books and binoculars
jumping off their shelves with a mind of their own;
from dragonflies and butterflies and moths zooming straight
into her outstretched hand.

I come from the shadows cast by her glow;
from the sneer in those wretched boy’s eyes,
the strange words uttered from his mouth-
Muggle.
I come from the base of a tree,
only trying to protect her- to- to-
spy;
he’s like a dog and senses me, and only with words of my own,
I defend against the ones he shot at me.
I come from the bruise forming on the arm
as a reminder to stay away from trees,
from freaks.

I come from the corner of the couch, my mum and
my dad fawning over her, parchment in their hands
bearing some animalistic seal, and the other man with
a starry, cone-shaped hat, waving around a stick,
inviting them for a drink.
I come from slammed doors, hours in a lived-in bed,
under the smelly covers, the pillow no longer a comfort;
from burning the midnight oil by the window,
gazing at the stars, just-
gazing.
I come from sneaking out in the mornings to the postman,
full of letters demanding answers;
from the shock of words so kind and yet
so uninviting- cruel- in that loopy handwriting.

I come from the silence passed in the car,
staring out the other windows, but she-
she is smiling, eyes blazing with happiness, and mum and dad
have the same sappy grin; from tugging the shirt of mum to stay close,
surrounded by all the toads, and owls, and cloaks, and sticks;
from learning that there is no such thing as privacy from
a wicked girl who hangs around with that wicked boy,
pulling away from her soft grip and piteous eyes;
from the hatred now boiling within me.

I come from turning my back, and never once
looking over my shoulder,
never daring to know
her
again.