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For Mechelle Nicole Gonzales

When I first met her she sat alongside the wall and tried to disappear in chipped paint.
Butterflies flapped on her lips and “a rose by any other name” laid placid behind her right ear.
She wore a white shirt and khaki pants,
they all wore white shirts and khaki pants.
But she stood out while sitting invisible.
Her eyes are the shape of round buttons,
the big ones you could never loose.
I find her wanting a creative outlet by the way her body folds in the corner engaging nothing, but following all the rules.
I have reason to believe she has more to offer than olive skin.
While visiting a Victorian village,
I let conversation listen to her talk about a father she loves and hates,
a mother who suffers in rooms with drawn curtains,
and a brother she needs to be better for.
I hand her a pen and paper and tell her to save herself,
to learn how to swim,
to start eating healthy.
She draws pictures of her insides and tells stories in a maze that looks like her heart.
She is growing girl in these words.
I am needing her to see her worth and live life in rainbows and rooftops.
I am wanting her to be more than marble balls and a glass house she can’t see out of.

The first time she came alive on paper,
I saw her realize that before this moment she hadn’t really been breathing,
and her native tongue “poured onto pages.”
Every now and then she tells me when she smiles and how many times.
I hope she never forgets what it means to be creative.