**Over the past couple of weeks I’ve encountered some difficulties that’ve tempted me to feel ostracized and alone. Here’s a poem of my reasoning at that time.**
my soul screams at this paradox.
Yet its cries are vacuumed by the space between
hope and fear,
security and loss,
refuge and conflict,
friendship and desertion.
Waves of our grey now crash violently on top of me,
battering my head down into abashed submission.
I look up,
seeing only the eyes of confused disdain,
and the empty shades of their dead husks.
I’ve offered space and questioning...
however, I’m met only with perplexity and confusion.
I attempt to look into the mirror of another’s face,
but find I’m greeted with more insistence and impatience.
So I’ve retreated...
locked away in a cellar of cerebral autonomy,
maintained by my own doubts and shames and romanticism.
Its staircase to anchoring hope and elevation does in fact reach,
while its steps simultaneously spiral away from all otherness,
descending deep into absence.
I have my rights to sit here, you know...
here in this detached place of leisure and abstraction.
I have my right to fail, and
be less than their projections and expectations.
I have the right to see this through,
and conceal my pain—it’s too stark for others,
though not for me.
I am not who I was in their imaginings.
Feeling as though I have value, but am not desired,
I’m no better than a lost trinket on the ground,
a coin perhaps,
glittering the ever slightest to call your eyes
long enough for you to devalue my presence.
Viscerally I scream with the voice of the mute,
staring out from this two-way mirror
they’ve been salivating on,
seeing the ways they hope to be seen.
...But they don’t hear me.
They can’t hear what isn’t real,
as the falseness of others is their truth,
so my realness is therein abandoned.
“You have let me down.” is whispered believably in my ear.
And all I can muster is “Of course I have...”
But I will get tired of this resting place.
Sitting here in between.
And alone I’ll breathe in the scent of hope, exhaling the life of patience.
I am whole,
standing here true,
holding my own cracks and pieces,
which cut my very hands.
I am also broken,
my heart bleeding true,
pouring for union and harmony,
which alone heals this wounded soul.
So this vessel you now see will inevitably scar,
as its breaks have splintered deep.
Therefore know that as you come to me,
I want you to understand why I weep.
I have seen brilliance in the yellows,
and have known the vivacity of greens.
The richest calms of purple have embraced me,
But now absence sits with me in between.