Too shy to talk

But give her a pen

And she won’t be silenced,

Writing about dragons and fairies

And the distant worlds

From her delicate, butterfly dreams.

She wanted adventure,

Only feeling at home

When lost in a book.

She’d look under her bed

To find those monsters

In hopes of making friends

And ask them

What’s it like to be afraid?

So she could write

Like the grown-ups do.

Little girl, the demons

Aren’t under your bed

They’re under your skin,

And I’m afraid you would no longer

Recognise your own writing.