Inbetween
I’ve never quite managed to fit in. I can sculpt multiple different masks from wax or clay, put them on and try to make my way but the truth is I am the gaps between the wood of the pier, the drawer that doesn’t fit quite right in your dresser.
I dance between the lines, a tightrope that can only be accessed by those that don’t feel entirely human.
My entire life, I have felt displaced. Nothing really feels real. Including myself. Maybe that’s just how it is. Life is a constant battle.
The feeling of being alien isn’t new to me. Feeling disconnected from my own humanity, wondering if I was a changeling because I’ve always felt so different to the rest.
I cry for help over and over but people stare at me blankly, eyes glossy like they’re not even living, like I do not speak the language they do even though I know that everything I say they could understand if they just listened.
Staring at the scars on my skin from where a blade, hastily freed from the casing that gave it purpose, kissed my flesh and made it bloom with red. It’s like there’s a fuzzy filter between myself and the pain. Like my brain refuses to acknowledge that they are self inflicted and instead chooses to believe they are just a part of my design.
The filter only goes away when I’m in the one place I really feel I belong. The people that make me feel less alien, maybe because their presence transports me to a world where everyone else is “alien” too.
So yeah, maybe I don’t belong anywhere but in a cluster of stars, surrounded by life so bright and full that warmth envelops me every which way I turn. And maybe that’s okay.
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