I was a mountain girl, by Sam Marie

"I was a mountain girl; my body was tall. I grew up in the grasslands, stretching towards the sky and reaching for my dreams. I made wishes on weeds and cut paper wings to fly to the sky. We built houses from broken tree trunks and fallen leaves, our hands working together to fix what had long been destroyed. Our aspirations flew away with the wind, changing at the speed of the moving sun. My sisters wanted to be princesses, ballerinas, astronauts, teachers. I wanted to be the queen of the forest, air that danced with the wind, a bird with unwavering wings, soil that understood the mysteries of the world. We grew taller, and their dreams peeled away with aging skin and the appliance of pink blush. I refused to let go of my fairytale days and my mind did not grow as my legs did. My soul stayed too young, leaving my mind free to dream but not free enough, for the truly free are wise enough to understand that nobody can be young forever.

I was a mountain girl; my heart was made of stone. My blood ran red but I did not bleed. As a child, I slipped in the grasslands and shattered my bones. My face stayed dry. I wanted to be a rock, thrown about without a whimper of pain. I fought with my brothers and brushed off purple bruises and scraped knees. With age, I learned that a lion's roar hurt more than its bite, and I wished to be a lion too, running without a care. I did not let my brothers push me about. I pointed my nose to the sky and attacked with words I found too witty. I became brave. My mended bones and strengthening sentences morphed me into a warrior. I climbed high trees and raised my voice to people taller than me. I fought the monsters of my dreams and ignored the ones next door. I was fearless, except not, because those truly without fear respect fear's existence.

I was a mountain girl; pieces of me fell away. The tallness of my body and the stoniness of my heart broke me apart. I was not as wise as I thought, for I did not build myself up on even ground. My tall body could not withstand the wind. Girls not as silly as my sisters used my childish dreams against me. They were smarter than me, and meaner still. They told me how I would not fly and laughed when I tried. They made me small. They made it easier for my stone heart to shatter. Boys not as kind as my brothers used their ocean eyes and voices of cotton candy to pull my veins into their snake-traps. They praised the fire of my bravery and climbed my trees, only to push me off the branches. They used their venom teeth to pull my invincible heart from my chest and proved me wrong. I could bleed.

I am a mountain girl; I continue to stand. Though my tops are now snow-covered with the lessons I have learned, I am not gone. I may be stupid, I may be with fear, I may be broken or bleeding or ugly or weak, but I am still here. They can cloud me with fear and erode my surfaces but they cannot knock me completely down. They can make me small and fragile but they cannot eliminate the existence of my soul. I will live on to run again to the places where I become what I am meant to be: tall and wise, made of stone and brave with fears, a human mountain through and through