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.