Of course, I'm not sure when it happened, where or how...
When I got rough-shod pushed into the space between,
Abandoned like a monster, fairy, to be feared.
Surviving as a child of liminality,
No place to call my home: not Light, not Dark, I am
Of Twilight -- not belonging, longing for a tribe.
Between the rainbows, unicorns, or angels, bees;
Between the goddesses or cherubs, I reside.
To Be there in a space, I'm told, "Does not exist!"...
It's heavy with self-loathing, doubt, and mystery.
Some say it's much like being caught up 'tween Heav'n and Hell,
Or our small Earth and the enchanted Upside Down.
But in a world 'twas made for Good, the culture sprang
a cruel calculus: for it declared we waifs
not welcome here, as if we could feel "home" where we
were otherworldly-ish. Creating space where there
was none became our specialty, our dreamland's, gilt
in wishes, hearts, desires to fit with one, at least!
But neither side will have us. Then, well -- Truth be told,
just maybe, liminality suits me, and I
may relish be-ing, living by my own self-rule;
wayfaring stranger I am, following the steps
anOther left before. An angel-child, not of
this world, was Liminal, the Bridge between the two.