I Named her Jade

I named her Jade.

The green-eyed girl that often hid in the woods. Same spot. Same tree. She traced the bark with her her fingertips. Hoping that someone heard her prayers.

She begged to be changed. Born a boy, instead of girl. Less curves. More "normal" and an end to her disorder.

Others stared at her eyes. Commenting. Are they yellow? Hazel? Green?

A changeling.

Red-faced Jade learned to hide.

Deeper and deeper into the shadows. Hands with lines, skin dry.

Different.

Doctors used the words European skin disorder, but she heard "broken."

She hated being different.

She craved normal.

She dreamed of the beauty her sister held.

I look at her now, I watch as she counted to distract from crying. Because only babies cry.

So much I want to tell her. First, I'd say:

Cry little girl, scream from the top of your trees.

Come out of your hiding place.