Sometimes,

I am afraid of human physical contact,

I am afraid that if I let someone

put a hand on my heart,

they won't feel a thing,

that their own palm won't pulse

by my heartbeats,

that they would realize

with horrid expression on their face

that

I am not like them.

Sometimes,

I am afraid of nostalgia,

a feeling I am a stranger to my own body,

that I speak out loud

and hear someone else's voice,

that I have a seed of homesickness

growing deep,

that the only way I notice it,

is in my isolation

or when I am open to be wounded

on a clear field

waiting for a shotgun.

Sometimes,

I am afraid of the war,

I am afraid that I give myself easily,

that even if one side would win

and the other would lose,

I would still suffer and feel.

The catalog of this forced power-play

have always enlisted

my devotion of self worship,

of giving praises to be myself,

but I am yet to find out how to do that.

I have different scraps of body

made by different types of elements,

which I give freely

to sacrifice and yield

so to ensure serene silence,

the calm blue yonder

and silence again,

cause I never have it enough.

I allow myself to be affected

by the imperfectionism

and refuse to understand

that I am doing this on purpose,

to destroy,

to be consumed

when the only mystery is how I am still so hang up over my pride,

how I judge and judge

with my head hanging low,

how I am always floating away from this planet

and giving glory to this sickness.

But She,

She is different,

She is confident.

She walks

and the buildings lean towards her,

catching her reflection

and knowing that its been blessed.

She talks and its so full,

there's no stutter in her words,

her lipstick untouched by the dirt.

Her hair the colour of wet wood

is godlike,

like from Mother's Earth,

like a consequence of being immortal,

of being among us.

She's so... elegant.

Like Paris,

like cotton dolls and purple coneflowers.

Her whole being is enchanting,

is wholly,

is divine and complete.

And I like those words

but they do not describe me.

I don't feel wholly,

I feel owned by something

a force, a being.

I feel lost,

there's no crumbs to lead me home

but She has it all under control.

And sometimes I do wonder,

if She's me,

from another time,

in some parallel world

that stays a daydream,

always.

○○○

//September 2017//