I learned early
that my face is a borrowed thing –
a mask stitched from the expectations of others,
worn until it grew heavier
than the skull beneath it.
I smile,
and the world mistakes the gestures
for belonging.
Inside, the muscles shiver,
imitating a language
I never truly learned.
I walk among people
the way a ghost walks among houses –
passing through rooms I cannot inhabit,
listening to laughter
that never quite reaches me.
They speak of hope
as if it were a cup of warm tea,
something simple, something held.
But whenever I try to drink it,
the liquid slips through cracks
only I can feel.
Sometimes I wonder
if I was meant to be human at all…
Or merely the outline of one –
a chalk figure,
accidentally blown into motion
by a cruel wind.
I have loved,
but even love recoiled
at the strange temperature of my soul.
It wanted warmth;
I offered a dim blue flame
that flickered like an apology.
I have lived,
but living felt like wearing clothes too tight—
each moment pulling at seams
that were never designed for me.
And so I write,
because writing is the only place
where the panels of this assembled self
do not rattle loose.
Ink does not demand humanity;
it only asks for truth.
Here is mine:
I am no longer human.
Perhaps I never was.
Perhaps I only mimicked the motion of those born to it.
And yet,
even in this confession,
there is a pulse –
a thin proof that something inside me refuses to die.
If that stubborn spark is not humanity,
then let it be
My final rebellion against the beautiful world
I could never fully touch.
