Changeling
Sometimes I wonder idly, beneath the disguise,
Have I my father's smile, or my mother's eyes?
Do I look like a Tonks? Are my features Black?
What was I to begin with, and can I change back?
Of my own creation, always changing my face,
Certainly not graceful, and somewhat out-of-place.
A laughing rainbow, vivacious—I am always bright
Knowing identity's truth lies beyond shallow sight.
I cannot stay fixed with the change in my flesh:
As a Metamorphmagus, I must transform afresh.
I'm mutable and fluid; thus do I wear every mask
That is required of me as I pursue my daily task.
My sense of balance, I'm afraid, is long gone:
Sometimes I've missed it, but I continue on.
My first face? I'm sorry, I cannot recall—
Yet it doesn't trouble me that much at all.
They call me a changeling, a not-quite-belong,
A fey child, singing to her own unique song.
I have a gift, blessing mixed with some pain,
A talent that serves me, again and again.
Yet in the fluidity, I still know my own core,
The me I have made, and I need nothing more.
I know well who I am, though some never do:
Despite all the changes, that alone shone through.
I don't know the face I emerged with at birth,
But it matters little if it's never unearthed.
Looks are but illusion: this I learnt long ago.
Such is the reality that I effortlessly show.
