i don’t belong.
the gray seeps in
crowding me into edges,
the penumbra of vacancies.

what was written.
it is a language
i cannot read,
a chisel in my hand.

there is a place.
i will drown in
the waters of my birth,
in the shades of meaning.

i can’t go back.
they will call me foreigner
in my native tongue,
lashing me to the sea.

i will remain.
the tan of my skin
will not wash off,
colored by history.


About ky

Poet. Photographer. Writer. Goddess. View all posts by ky

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