They Don't Know You

There was a day when she realized

that not everyone would see her for the daisies in her garden,

or for the thrill of making the bright yellow birdhouses in her backyard.

They wouldn’t see her for the way she draws everything she sees,

or the way she twirls her pencil when she’s bored.

Instead, they’d just see.

See that everything about her is a shade too dark for their taste.

That’s when she began to wonder why the ocean was absent from her eyes,

and why her face didn’t match the skin of her palms.

But there was also once a day when she realized her anguish won’t matter to anyone.

She decided that she wouldn’t let it matter to her.

She decided that no one would watch her as she faded like a tired breath in February’s air.

So she hid her darkness deep down inside

where it remained—suffocated— since it couldn’t be reached by air, as if that would somehow make it light.

Where it definitely couldn’t be heard by any curious ears lurking nearby.

Where you couldn’t feel its weight pressing—grabbing— her shoulders each day.

Maybe it would’ve been different

if she didn’t have to grow out of her fear of the dark alone

and learn to love the darkness of her skin against the golden summer skies of August in secret,

as if loving oneself is a private matter.

Maybe people like her wouldn’t spend so long running from the darkness

and chasing the light until they’re old enough to know better,

if someone just held their hand and whispered,

They don’t know you like I do.

Your darkness makes you glow.

by MAHI MIRCHANDANI