interesting to see
how i grew up and came to be;
what i wrote, how i spoke.
no one euphemism fits
yet i shall try to describe:

like a reptile that shed its skin and kept it,
like a keepsake, which at one time was cherished
but now left to weather by the windowsill.
like seeing the scars
from the wounds you know you dealt yourself,
ones you still call beautiful despite all the horror.

it's the closest to seeing how angsty and in your head you were,
how you felt everything, even the nothing,
how you so desperately wanted to crawl out of your skin,
and you still sometimes do.
you read those words and feel like
those words were never yours.
but they are.

at least now you know you've changed;
not where you wanted to be,
but farther than where you once were;
and that, i think, is beautiful.

what transpires here
are things that have just arrived;
none of them kept baggage,
or maybe some.

might i be given
the benefit of the doubt?
why must i still hear
the very same demons?

saying too much
or too little;
or both,
different on each ear;

why must the dark
feel like soothe,
when those who i call home
fear it?

maybe time will yield,
and to good things, tell;
what there is to triumph,
what stars are there to align.

I guess, it's selfish:
Not going back where it first began.

So I shoot blindly, in the dark,
Hoping that anyone would remember.

I have never been complete,
But i feel like a part of home is here.