Jack of All Boxes

It’s getting bad again.
At the very beginning of a new life,
I project an idea of fraud onto myself,
that I somehow am not what I am.
Where are the seeds for this idea?
Why was I born into this false body with
hips that tease me in mirrors
and breasts that lie
with a voice that buzzes and a heart that screams
through my chest.
Why am I not what I am?
I’ve put myself in words but I am a soul.
A wordless soul.
Maybe in more ways than one I speak a foreign language
one even foreign to my own lips perhaps
like how it crunches on my tired teeth
I was made to be here I think.
Not many planes entice me to dream these days.
Not many people tell me that I’m too rooted in
myself to grow.
Though it may not seem,
I thrive on my own clock and my own alone.
quite enough for me
and on top of an undefined body, nothing on earth
can be built.
Am I the force that crushes others?
How can that be?
When I am also the crushed?
Both boot and its bug beneath.
I feel like an intruder in my self-definition
like I take up too much space behind my skin
in everything I try to fit in myself
and all the worlds I straddle – with sometimes just
a finger latched into the entire universe of others.
Crushed by wind and blue midnights
How are we so satisfied with looking at horizons
and never crossing them
with how green our trees are and never planting them?
What is truly meant to be breached and what fills us
enough just in witnessing it?

Is it right that my beautiful body is malicious because it
doesn’t speak in the same language than others?
That I think it’s curves are letters that seem familiar
but sound so different when I know how to read them
where my full lips and body are a different alphabet
and maybe all of these readings were meant to go extinct
to extinguish themselves upon their own dared exploration?
I wear an ethnicity and a gender that are as much spoken by
myself as mouth as they are by my brain but I walk on stones
no one walks on. 1) Not enough for 2) not enough for 3) not enough for.
And it is alright to have a million tastes of lives around
but if I could just be so satisfied by swallowing my very own in one bite
rather than around its crust.
My body is not the words I say.
Ultimately neither is my own language.
It is not what I read or believe I read wrong.
It is behind my eyes and ribs but not what I see or breath.
Just a truth of 3rd person but no onlooker.
Just a truth of the world that I carry, almost proudly.

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