Dear Savannah,
There is a girl who is terrifying both in her presence and in her absolutely ground-shattering beauty. She's got eyes like the core of the sun and a heart that burns just as hot. The blood that rushes under her skin is full of stories, full of words gone unexpressed.
A lioness.
She was raised with the wildebeests and the gazelles, but fearing her teeth and her claws, they tore off her mane and withheld her power from her.
"Don't let her know the truth," they chattered to themselves. "She can't know what she is."
And so the queen of the savanna was raised to believe herself a peasant for seventeen long years.
And yet, try as they might to conceal her identity from her, she was always so distinctly different. When the beasts of the earth would stalk too close to her flock - to her haphazard clan - when the vultures would hover above the wounded members of her pride, a deep and unearthly growl could be heard from her chest, an outraged hum that could be felt for miles.
And when her lips did part, teeth bared, eyes gleaming with blood lust and vengeance, a roar did erupt from within her. A warning and a promise to those who wanted to hurt the ones she held close.
Clipped claws, filed down fangs, and mangled mane, yet her roar was defiantly leonine and the world did quake under her paws.
When she roared, the wildebeests and gazelles nearby pricked up their ears, and, realizing they had a predator on their side, a weapon to rely upon, began to trust their own hooves and horns. The growl of the little lioness had made their enemies retreat in fear, but it had given them a new found strength in their own bones.
Soon the wildebeests were not so frightened of the neighbouring hyenas, tigers, and coyotes. They themselves began to fend off attackers. They bared their teeth and roared themselves, becoming more lionlike in the mere presence of their little guardian.
Yet for all she was and didn't yet know, the little lioness could not roar for herself. When a predator would prowl around her, she would tuck her tail and lower her head, submitting herself to the most vicious of attacks.
"Roar at them," her wildebeest family would tell her. "You are more dangerous than them!"
"I cannot roar at them," she would say, ears pressed flat against her head. "I am not a lion. I am a wildebeest, and this is just the order of things."
And so the lioness, though ruthless when defending her family, could not stand up on her own paws and lift her eyes to her attackers.
This story isn't about you, Savannah. This story is about a girl you have watched grow up your whole life. A girl who has, does, and will continue to defend you unto your dying day. A girl who would look up into the eyes of your hard-hearted friends and tell them where to shove their rude remarks.
A girl who developed a spine for both you and herself growing up because you were too timid to stand up for yourself.
She's your bodyguard, your confidant, and the person who would stand by you even if you made an ass of yourself. (And you do. You do that surprisingly often these days.)
Her heart is too big for her narrow ribs, and her arms are disarmingly thin, and she keeps her mane cut short because she hates to have her heart on her sleeve for everyone to jeer at and ridicule, but do not be misled. There's a depth in her, a hurting and a longing to be loved, that cannot be seen from the surface.
Her thoughts will spill out of her mouth in verse, in poems of passion and rage, in a rhythm that makes your heart beat out of tune by comparison.
You will watch her roar for you, for others, for friends who do not deserve her loyalty, for jealous and worrisome wildebeests - and you will wonder how you could possibly share blood with someone so fearsome and terrifying as she.
But Savannah, little wildebeest, I need you - I plead you - to gain your footing and roar for her when she cannot defend herself.
You see, as unabashedly terrifying as she may be, she's got a soft heart and a weary voice when she's attacked.
"Well, I deserve it," she'll say. "They're right. I was wrong to do that."
When you hear this, strap on your shin guards and go hunting. Track down her adversaries and make them shit themselves in fear of hurting her again. Strip them of their claws and carry those parts back to her as an offering of gratitude.
Savannah, your little sister is a remarkable work of art, a cumulation of little dashes of paint on a canvass. She has the entire ocean and every star tucked away in her chest - so many feelings and thoughts and desires. She's an ever-evolving kaleidoscope. She is the best friend you will ever have, and you owe it to her to protect her from the hyenas. Return the favor.
She's the most valuable person you will ever have in your life, and don't you damn forget it.
Love,
Yourself
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