we could try to
identify ourselves, limitless, searching for
a place to fit into, a list of the things that can be
loved and not loved,
a diagnosis of personality.
pushing to mark, to bury, to be identifiable and
infallible, a three hundred and sixty person,
with needs and wants and connections. A person
moored and structured in life, no more
adrift,
a paper boat on
moving water.
to paint my nails and my face as though I am still
normal, to force myself to eat breakfast and then
fall the rest of the day (as though it never mattered)
to sit and put words on a page to
identify myself. I am still searching for
a place to fit into, after all these years of writing
lists and lines, things that will
fix me, evolve me, transform a person so
one sided and double sided into
a girl not searching for an outlet beyond,
an indefinable newness and release
an impossible freedom.
