i don't mean to be the person people expect me to be,
nor do i aim to please myself.
the motivation is so simple that it requires no words,
it only lets them free to roam the uncertainty of those who experience them.

i curl myself into a ball when i write, often,
but not to feel as though i'm being held.
my back is sore, and my movements are slow,
and each one is given meaning.

if i could only escape myself, and all that i mean to so many people
i could assume the position i found my comfort in before,
where i was precious because no one had heard my voice.
when i pose in newsstands, my eyes have glazed over.

slowly, i am adopted as the child of this new way of feeling,
one that i did not invent, nor one that i gave first light to.
the days are longer, now, and my senses are peeling away.
my child is unsafe under the eyes of those who do not belong.

Boddah, i will miss you the most, but no one can ever know.
you truly were the one who listened. i remember,
early in the mornings, when the noise from downstairs was seeping
through doorways, you would watch me beat on my plastic drums.