When I go back,
will you wrap your arms around me,
even though I smell differently,
speak foreignly, think a little too liberally,
will you, will you still love me?

When I go back,
will you re-teach me my language,
re-connect me with my roots,
re-live the years I missed, re-kindle my innocent bliss,
will you, will you still call me yours?

When I go back,
will you provide me with friends,
not “childhood friends’, but the ones
that are ready to make new memories,
and appreciate my multiple identities,
and will they, will they accept me?

When I go back,
will you guarantee me a relevant nationality,
a place I can belong, a culture I can call on,
to answer these confusions, these conundrums
these clashes of who I am and where I’ve been,
of when I changed and why I’m me,
Will you cure me, finally,
of these anxieties?

Or will I
forever be a splinter
that doesn’t quite fit in right
a thin piece in society
that jabs at its veins,
remain unwanted and, ultimately, a pain,
but can never be uprooted?

Only there,
slowly growing
*insane?