There are mornings
I wish I could shed this skin,
leave it on the bedside,
and walk away, lighter,
without the weight of everything
that makes me me.
Maybe then
I could look at myself
with the gentleness reserved for strangers,
a softness
only granted to someone
you’ll never truly know.
Someone I could never truly be.
And when they ask,
“Do you remember who you were?”
I’ll smile,
softly,
as if speaking of the dead:
“Yes, I think he was kind,
but always carrying too much.”
I would no longer be
the burden of me.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 5:32 PM UTC
There are mornings
I wish I could shed this skin,
leave it on the bedside,
and walk away, lighter,
without the weight of everything
that makes me me.
Maybe then
I could look at myself
with the gentleness reserved for strangers,
a softness
only granted to someone
you’ll never truly know.
Someone I could never truly be.
And when they ask,
“Do you remember who you were?”
I’ll smile,
softly,
as if speaking of the dead:
“Yes, I think he was kind,
but always carrying too much.”
I would no longer be
the burden of me.
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