Whatever
I don’t feel comfortable in many spaces. Always in-between, familiar camouflage in a size that fit a previous or future iteration. Clothes that were never meant for me. Quieted and calm, like my mother always wanted.
Cardiff and Wales, Baath and the hills in that one beach town I heard the British boy say he went to boarding school in. I don’t know these places, these hills, these lives that these brown people know. The bank of the world that will pay for the Harvard child.
Like the poet I thought I was at 15, trying to be seen as long as the air will carry me.
The blue hair I want but cannot bring myself to. The sure sign of aimlessness and failure. The decorations to verify I have decided.
What I’ve always feared, the nothingness to prove my worth. To prove I am here, in this space. The child, the man, the job. Anything to distract from being seen, to present my case for breathing. Not knowing what is keeping me other than the living.
