Father is scared of me, he said I am a demon, a bastard child. My mother is weary with worry, she said she does not know me anymore. 

My siblings won’t talk to me they fear that they may incur my father’s wrath, after all I am the lost one, the cursed child. The fallen one. 

I stare at my own reflection in the mirror, everyone claims I look like my mother, I never agree but I know it is true, explains my pretty face. I observe my body, my broad shoulders, my defined but subtle abs, an athletic build I inherited from my father. 

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, nothing’s changed. 

Why won’t they look at me? 

Do they not know a  braided hair does not alter my brain, these piercings do not make me a worshipper of Ògún (the god of iron), and under the tattoos, I am the same child you bore from your womb? The child you cradled to sleep and told stories of ancient folklores under the full moon. 

So please do not turn your back on me, mother. Hold my hands again, Father. Tell me I have not fallen short of your glory. Tell me you only fear the things you do not know.

For I may not worship as you do, believe in the ways of the past, or dress how you want me to,  but know that I am still your child. 

Do not break my wings, do not hurl stones at me. Love me and let me fly; I only wish to be free.