It was Brooke Shields’ face staring at me from the cover
of some forgotten magazine now; she with her
beautiful blue eyes and million-dollar smile, and the
words I’d never seen before next to whatever was
in style.  Chameleon, it said, though there was another word
before it; but I didn’t even register it for I’d just learned
a new word that seemed to fit
the image of me the way I wanted to be, never to be as
beautiful as she was but if anything, free
and like a chameleon, I wanted to be just like her
changing, adapting, becoming whatever was asked of her.
But in my case, there would be no camera, no lights,
there would be no fawning fans; just darkness and confusion
far ahead, and lies disguised as plans
but a chameleon I was going to be, I’d become tough and
hard as nails; nothing to hurt me, nothing to bring me down,
I wished my skin be thick with scales
where words would never hurt me for they could never find me,
not when I’d disappear like a chameleon, and become this thing
that could move so fluidly – so reptilian.  I’d blend in
with everything around me, so no one could see me –
the child constantly picked on because she was different,
weaving her tales of wonder, her stories of escape, off to a world
of her own where there was no pain or hate.
So chameleon I would become, with no set ambition but to blend in,
There would be no cameras, no lights nor fans, just the need
to find somewhere safe to begin.

Daily Prompt