How do you know that the words you speak are yours
If you were only taught to repeat the ones others said?
Fears that I speak,
a recital of those that came before me.
Desires that I seek,
an echo of the loudest ones around me.
Contempt that I leak,
a debris of words that failed to leave me.
How to articulate
this hope that lives within me,
a longing that wants to breathe
outside the borders of
my pale and stubborn skin?
