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?