Story of a Black Sheep
I was the black sheep of the family.
A feral thing in a flock of white,
marked dangerous, like the wolves
they said would hunt us.
I was born an ally to the night,
bearing my difference and defiance like fleece.
—matted, unbrushed—
a texture they refused to touch.
Too emotional to be palatable, too loud to be silenced.
They wanted a tender lamb with ivory horns clipped,
But conformity
was never my thing.
I overheated in the sun
so I lingered in the shadow
And flinched at laughter never meant for me.
I was safer at night, so I studied the foxes, Silent-footed creatures who knew how to take
without being taken,
And I was left unsheared every spring,
never naked among the blooming.
I bled red into the wool they never relieved me of,
too pigmented for anyone to see,
too thick for anyone to ask what trembled underneath;
My coat a soft armour from the weather,
But a burden to tearing skin.
I was not worth much to them;
my meat too fatty, too tough,
never marked for consumption.
No pretty pelt to be carved like an offering
A sacrifice for a mother’s bragging.
Unvalued. Unharvested. Unheeded.
But there is worthiness
Outside of the market.
My time was my own,
And the wildflowers bloomed
all the same for me.
I was a rebellion against my bloodline, so I crocheted a home
from my wool.
I learned to create my own worth
While no one else had to.
I learned to love unconditionally.
—Unreciprocated—
To find those in the daisies
bowing their heads to the dirt,
raising their eyes to the clouds,
begging to be commodified,
a servant to the system,
valued for what they grow,
what they give,
what gets taken from those around them,
To be like others.
To fit in.
But I chose a different thread.
I built a living room out of PoetrySlams and a family out of strangers.
And together we weave a tapestry from the scraps.
A community of makers,
A flock of black sheep.
We built artifacts from our otherness,
And the stories we’ve stitched.
Priceless.
Because they can’t have it.
