Title: Brin
Author: Ashantai
E-Mail: ashantai@hotmail.com
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I own nothing and nobody.

A/N: I found this at my parents' house... it was actually written about 5 months ago but I never published it... this poem assumes that the little boy most people identify as Brin, Chris Soo, is in fact her, though technically he's not. You'll see what I mean. Enjoy!


Who was I?

You do not know.
You were not shown.
The child I was-
Seen but not heard.
The woman I was-
Diseased. Sick. Afraid.
Both gone now.

I died before you knew me,

Or had a chance to try.
You know I was loved.
I was given up with a fight.
I was cried over.
I was the cause of pain and guilt.
But what about before?
I had a life before my pain,
Before my sickness.
It is neither your fault nor mine
that there was no opportunity for you to know me.

You know I was born in a place of horror,

You know I had a family there,
a religion, a history.
You know I helped other children
murder a man in cold blood.
You know I sacrificed a tooth to an invented god.
You know I set down my machine gun once
to study a red balloon.
You know I was afraid there.
You know I escaped. I was ten.
It was a decade before you saw me again.

It is safe to guess some events of my life-

I laughed, I cried, I loved.
We all do.
At some point I went to California.
You know that.
And I got sick. You know that too.
But what about before?
Who was the woman silenced by disease,
given up by a brother and sister who had no choice?
I did not want to die. You know that.
But who does? It means nothing.

You know so much, but barely a fraction

of what made up my life.
I died. Not my body, but my mind.
They destroyed my identity as they cured my illness.
You will never know me.
They stole that from you as they
stole so much from me,
starting with my childhood.
You know that.

But it isn't enough.

You will never know what made me laugh,
when and why I cried,
whom I loved.
I could have been a mother-
you wouldn't know.
Did I still believe in the Blue Lady?
Why was I in California?
Was I isolated, or did I have contact
with my family?
I cannot answer those questions.
They stole the answers with my freedom.

When you think of me,

you may remember a little girl
murdering a man or marvelling at a balloon.
You may also remember a woman
who was sick and couldn't run anymore,
and who didn't want to die.
But I was more than that. Much more.
I can't tell you who I was.
That information has been stolen from me.

But I can tell you this:

I was a woman.
I had a life.
I was imperfect, haunted by my past.
I was afraid. We all are.
I can tell you this, too:
I am dead.
You will never know me.
But I existed. I was free.
For ten years, I was free.
I lived a life in that time,
full of mistakes and tears.

When you think of me,

don't remember a child in chains.
Don't remember an ill woman.
Remember what you never saw,
the life I must have led.
Remember those ten years.

Who was I?

I cannot answer that.
But I can tell you this:
I existed and lived a life.
I was free and loved it.
It is not nearly enough, but it has to be.
I'm dead now.
But I was Brin, a name I gave myself.
Remember that.