I could tell a thousand stories,
and they would all be true.

I could tell you how I’ve been touched by luck, my whole life through.

I could tell you of defeated days and years coloured by fear.

I could tell you of nights I almost drowned in all my tears.

I could tell you how my tears dried up, and I found joy again.

I could tell you how that joy was crushed by sudden pain.

I could tell you of how sure I’ve been that I know my own way.

I could tell you I’m still that lost schoolchild on her first day.

I could tell you about all I’ve learned – my wisdom; my advice…

I could tell you, too, of countless times I wish I had thought twice.

I could tell you of my traumas, and the gaping wounds they’ve caused.

I could tell you of the love I’ve lived – a love that’s never paused.

I could tell you of how far I’ve come; what progress I’ve achieved.

I could tell you that I’m still so stuck, I can’t even believe.

I could tell a thousand stories; could recall a million moments.

I could weave a tale that’s bright or dull, depending how I’ve sewn it.

Depending on whether it’s stitched together by self-pity,
or hemmed neatly by denial, making sure that it looks pretty.

I could knit a giant blanket under which to hide my shame.

I could spin a silken scarf and tie knots of rage and blame.

I could take the brightest thread, create the most joyous pattern…

I could weave a thousand tales –
But really, which ones matter?

The ones that I believe – that my mind conceives as true.
The ones that pervade all my thoughts; that pierce my being right through.

The ones that make my choices, colour my relationships…
In a nutshell – the ones that hold the tightest grip
on my self-worth, on the very idea of ‘who I am’…
The ones that open doorways wide, or look on as they slam.

I have told many stories, and they may all be true.
It all depends upon perception, upon point of view.

It depends on whether I’m a character or a writer;
whether I’m a victim, or a pacifist, or a fighter.

Perhaps I’m all these things combined; these interwoven tales.

Perhaps I’m lucky and unfortunate and brave and strong and frail.

Each story that I tell carries a little part of me;

Each one tells of who I am, who I’ve been and I could be;

And my pen, dancing its dance, helps me to set these stories free.

Chapter Book

Zero Percent