How is it possible…

That I’m the girl who did a camel safari?

That I’m the girl who flew to Spain on her own at fifteen?

That I’m the girl who used to have so much optimism?

 

How is it possible…

That I’m the girl who could feel “The Other” inside me so strongly?

Who was so sure that everything would turn out okay?

 

How is it possible…

That I’m a mother?

That I work in insurance?

That I don’t write anymore?

 

How is it possible…

That I don’t have the time to write letters – to pour my heart out onto pages for my loved ones to hold?

 

How is it possible that I need therapy?

How is it possible that I didn’t realise I needed it sooner?

Why do I feel so tired?

 

I feel so unseen…

So out of practice at being myself.

 

I’m so unused to playing with words the way I used to…

In the air…

And on paper.

 

Part of me knows that it’s not about the words but…

It is too. While we’re here, it is.

 

So this is me… half asleep,

With an ache in my chest

Writing.

 

Because right now I don’t know what else to do.

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