As autumn ceases and winter commences,

Your fingertips began to harden.

Like the leaves of maple trees,

Like the flowers blooming on centre street.

Patches of color began to fade,

Sucked away by an invisible hand.

Grappling the ends of their innocent limbs,

Plucking away at mother’s beauty.

Yet the trees weren’t trees,

They were children beaming with glee.

They were never meant to be

Faced with such harsh realities.

They weren’t the person in the mirror,

They weren’t the owners of their bodies.

They matured into a stranger,

A friend or a neighbor.

Oppressed by classmates,

Tormented by adults.

Never once shown their true colors,

Ever since the notes of “concern”.

Hidden in the shadows,

They tried their best.

To discard the person of the past,

But they could never pass.

They changed their voices,

Appearances and name.

But the emotions could never escape.

Held tightly by a rope

That wrapped around their chest,

Suffocating thoughts of hope,

Leaving behind bottles of joy.

They wished for a simple life,

A life that was stripped away from them.

A life without masking,

A life that belonged to a child.