Identity, n. /ʌɪˈdɛntɪti/

Who am I

if my tongue wants to roll around foreign words

now more familiar

than the sounds of home?

 

What kind of a tongue is this

when home is never practiced enough

and the practice of euphoria

will never be enough

to pass through the doors

of the supposed haven?

 

Where do I belong if I can

never be me in the lands I was born

and me can never be born

if I keep being rejected from

where my dreams are formed

like a foreign object being pushed out of a body?

 

Why do I long to belong?

Why do i long for an ownership of an identity

when who I want to be

shouldn’t be bound to

who I’m expected to be?

 

 

 

 

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