I’m losing sense of who I am
I do not know who to become
The stale garments upon my skin, my matted hair, accompanied by the stench of my body, cultivate a pathetic sight that would make many happy.
Desire is a privilege I could not reward myself with, not with this state of mind.
When I was younger, I was rife with rage.
That rage grounded me. I bottled it all in because I knew if I let it out, I would never win
Anger rewards you with nothing but shame and regret.
I remain irritated easily, I cannot temper it, apathy displeases me
I chew on more than I can bite, often choking on the burdens I carry
Some are mine, others borrowed
Perhaps it has turned into a delicacy; I would rather digest some peace of mind instead.
I promised myself freedom, but it kept being delayed by circumstances out of my control
I want a say in fate, too. Because the universe does not know what to do.
The waves tenderly coax me, like a siren luring a sailor into her arms to drown in the blue of the endless tide. And oh, the sea, with all its grandeur, how could I contend? How dare I compare?
A caress on my back
A hold on my hand
I wet my lips, tasting sand
Still, when cut, I bleed like a man. And it is not all in my head—I was born between salt and foam. I would know, the way I know this anchor pulling at my leg. “Lament dressed in dignity,” my grandmother once said. Although few conversations we had, she often repeated the phrase, alongside a saying that goes: “Hope is a poor man’s coin.” This and pride are all we have. With that, one must accept never possessing anything else.
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