I was the quiet one, lingering.
I was the shadow in the doorway, the unnoticed listener, drinking the music of laughter, living life through a keyhole.
I was the poet, stringing words I could never say. So many words and not a single truth.
I was a heart who breathed in beauty and exhaled longing, content to let the words linger unformed. Somewhere in me, there were screams, but the world asked for smiles, so I hid my eyes and grinned like a child they wanted.
I was the devil, with wings clipped by my father, tossed down to the lowlifes. Destined to reign, but never rise.
I was never a friend, never just a child, never the boy who lived, always just a problem, something to be fixed, to be changed,... to be broken.
I was the one who stood at the edge of the ocean, begging to be taken away, forever seeking, forever yearning.
I was—I am—a fragment of everything I have loved, everything I have lost, everything that has brushed against my soul, leaving behind scars and smiles, like echoes in an endless canyon.
And someday, I will be lost, from life. Lost from people. Lost from memory.
Perhaps then, I’ll be able to be me.