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i'm not from here.
Nor do i really think I belong.
This world feels like borrowed shoes—
A little too tight, worn down by steps that are not my own so i wander through its streets,
an outsider to its language, its stones.
In another time, i might have been
a whisper in the wind or a flicker in the dark,
something untamed and unseen.
The earth beneath feels strange,
like i'm forever mid-leap, never to land
while juggling hour glasses watching the
grains of sand slipping through this strangers hands—
i’m just chasing horizons that always seem to be the same distance away no matter where i stand
and...
when it finally comes, it seems the night is longer when i’m alone, the stars seem to burn with an indifferent glow.
They don't see me and sometimes, i wish i couldn't see them.
The mirror shows a face i half-recognize,
i get a little nervous,
a stranger with my eyes who's learned to smile like he belongs. But i can feel the cracks beneath the surface.
Sometimes, the ache of it all whispers like a cruel lullaby reminding me that to not belong is to be forever reaching, forever dreaming of a place where i might finally feel whole.
And yet, there’s some kind of beauty in this alien soil, in finding places where i almost fit in.
Bending like a tree in the wind while learning how to sing with a different bird's call.
There’s a quiet ache in being out of place,
but in that space i find the grace of endless possibility.
To not belong is a kind of freedom, to shape-shift in the twilight, to have loved without a home,
to create new worlds where all the other lost souls can roam and feel at home.
And so i embrace this not-belonging, let it dance in my bones,
for every step away from certainty is a step closer to my own.
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