In the way that I speak,
the way that I walk,
this sense of otherness – a presence.
One inescapable, one unyielding,
one that only if I wish to dare
I might have to stop, find its essence.

This body was not made with me in mind,
I’m made of a mother’s flesh,
a heart full of other’s thorns.
The wounds I earn stay fresh
while with me my soul mourns –
this life to me
unkind.

‘Let go, go back, keep going.’
I can’t help but yearn I was made for this.
Though I’ve been learning, growing,
surely confident in more than pieces and bits,
no matter where I go – I am still me.
Wherever I am, I follow.

Often, with my hands around the sink,
I beg for help I know won’t come,
I yearn for hugs from people some
burned from a fire within,
hurt by the forces above.

Behind the walls of my room,
I wipe, and I calm.
I tear apart, soon come anew.
I just breathe through the pressure,
ignore my chest
fill my lungs.
The flesh I’m made of suffocates me,
I just hope I won’t leave too soon.