I've spent so long reacting, performing, keeping things just far enough away that even when I reach inward, there's nothing solid to hold onto. I wander between who I should be and the shape I've learned to take, but neither fits, neither stays. I want to be seen, but not entirely. To be held, but never bound. To chase connection, yet carve out distance. To set myself alight, then curse the fire. And maybe I could change; but I hold my breath instead. Every time a hand reaches for me, I flinch, I fold, I sink. I'd rather drown than be pulled to shore. I wish I had spoken first, or stayed silent longer. Held on tighter. Let go sooner. Known what mattered before it became memory. I am still here, too afraid to move forward, too tired to stay still. And in a way, it's comforting, isn't it? The rhythm. The shape. The way it stays. At least it's mine.
— Yours truly.