All this time
I’ve been looking for something
to claim as my own,
something
to define my value
when the only company I have
are the faint rays of moonlight,
something
to paint me with density,
meaning,
individuality
in front of others,
something
not someone.
To finally feel at home,
not absent from reality,
not a two-dimensional piece
that can’t even be disposed of
in the nearest recycling bin,
like it has never felt the guiltiness
of not being able to be useful
more than once.
Stop letting people
be your landing coordinates,
stop them from making you feel
like they have a life
and you are leftovers
of their words, of last night’s dinner
on the kitchen counter,
stop promising yourself
that you need an external factor
to change,
because we all know
how temporary your metamorphosis is,
and I know best
how easily you get discouraged
and think “oh no, not you again”
when you realize
it was not permanent.
Make a haven
out of your own flesh
without needing the stories of strangers
to seem interesting
in the brown eyes fixed on the mirror,
make it look like
standing alone,
observing nature,
or picking at the horizon
with your hair strands
is not boring at all,
use loneliness as the building block
for the bridge that will lead you
back to your core
so you can repair your rusty locks;
it’s inspiring to hold your own hand
and draw circles on your back
when distractions are not enough
to put you at ease,
find something only for you
when all your friends
have already made it through.
