Edge of Myself

A poem

Photo by Alan Tang on Unsplash

Clarity folds into an insular oasis
beyond my reach.
It sits tranquil
while I venture with effort.
I make the steps,
I clear the path
and just when I think I’m getting close,
it evades.

The longing for something that makes sense
is making my arms feel tender and sore,
grasping for things that are not there:
the second opinions,
the second guessings that leave me
insular,
beyond reach.

I’m lingering on the edge of myself
not quite ready to grieve
not quite ready to embody my self.
Observing,
silently,
how each fold of skin
unpeels and falls.
I’m powerless against it,
but how come I’m also
wordless?

The words come in piecemeal
when undergoing the process
of renewal.
There are things left unsaid
that belong to the soul:
a language only the soul speaks,
in private,
without the ears of humans
interpreting at will.

When words do come,
they speak of pain,
they speak of the right
to change,
the sacrality
of transformation.
But who is there to help me grieve
when the old me is dead
and gone,
when the last folds of skin
unpeel
and I no longer recognize myself?

Will I still call myself by my name?

I tremble
in this cool fall,
a shudder of recognition,
of unity:
I am not the only one
that’s shedding.
But I don’t…