They said I was free
But they kept to themselves
The power to cut the lines
Between me and my self.
Now that I am no more living,
They say “me”, but what they leave in
Their stories is a being
That I never got to be, a being
That I never wished to be, a being
That I never knew how to be.
My existence falls into the cracks
Of their mentalities,
My quintessence lies at the back
Of their realities.
They quote me, but they mis-
Understand the extend of the words
That I wrote when I missed
Time to have time
To be mine…
And every time they read
I become a captive
Of their misperceptions,
Of their misconceptions.
And I listen to those words
That were once mine
But which are now running free
From the meaning I once gave them,
From the relief they once gave me.
And I listen to those wounds
That I no longer feel.
My whole world used to lie
Between sunset and sunrise,
Between high raise and erase;
My home used to reside
Between misshapen lines.
But they now give new words
To the scars I once claimed
And I feel transported,
Facing brand new options
I could never fathom.
I would just like to have
Enough time to read them,
To feel them and try them
And use them and wear them,
So they fit on my flesh
As if they were the skin
I always wished to have.
But I feel these new words
Are trying to fight mine,
And I feel these new worlds
Are trying to shape mine…
Yes, they said I was free
But they kept to themselves
The power to design
My being beyond me.
How can they, then, say “me”
When my very essence
Is melted so it matches
A design I can’t see?
Yes, they said I was free
And they quote and name me,
But what noise do I hear?
Do these words come from me?..
W.P.