Beyond the inches©️

How would you describe yourself to someone who can’t see you?

Just five foot three—
imagine a pear, warm-hued and mellow,
milk chocolate smooth, with a sway in its step
and eyes like small, soft chestnuts,
always watching, even when they seem closed.

They say I’m dreaming—
but I rarely sleep;
these shadowed moons beneath my eyes
aren’t from restless nights alone,
but from the quiet hush of anemia’s touch.

Where brows once framed expression’s arch,
now silence—
I do not draw them back.
Why paint what was never meant to stay?

A headband crowns what remains—
a gathered forest of hair,
looped into a modest ponytail,
alopecia’s quiet claim hidden gently from view.

And still, I walk.
And still, I’m seen—
a soft, steady shape
in the story of becoming.

Upon my left arm blooms a hibiscus—
petals inked in memory—
beside it, a butterfly paused mid-flight,
as if to rest in the warmth of my skin.

My fingers stretch long, like piano keys
waiting for a melody.
Strangers ask if they’ve sung before—
and once, they did.
I played once,
when music lived just down the hall,
when a piano waited with open arms.
Now, silence fills the space where song once lingered.

My feet—battered, bent, and brave—
bear stories etched in scar and strain.
Dancer’s steps, athlete’s trials,
surgeries marking the cost of movement.
They are not pretty—
but they are mine.
They are trophies—
unpolished, unashamed—
proof that I have moved
and been moved.

Beyond the inches©️

By Felina Silver – Copyright©️ July 2025