Written during a period of uncertainty, while trying to remain present, stable, and human.

I feel my feet scrape across the pavement,
the crunch of gravel beneath my boots.
On the way to my second life,
where I compromise who I am
for who you want me to be.

But giving up parts of myself
is never good enough.
It’s everything or nothing now.
And back home, nothing is preferred.

My name on a gravestone, maybe—
the name I had, not the name I have.
Their grief easy to explain,
the sympathy easier to receive.

But where does that leave me?
Eight feet under in a box I never wanted?
A thousand miles away,
parents mourning a child who still lives
but doesn’t live for them?

Does it matter,
as long as my feet keep moving forward?

As long as I hear the scuffs
and the crunch
and the scrapes
and the splash—
a soundtrack of life.

As long as I see the paths I leave
in the dust
and the dirt
and the grass—
reminders that I am a physical being,

That I have mass, 
that I take up space.

There is nothing wrong with that.

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