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  • Writer's pictureAimee Murphy

Twilight Orphan - poem, June 2019

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.

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