The Me I Turned Out to Be

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Photo Credit: travelbandit.com

I keep trying to be myself
but I always end up
being someone else
or something else.
The dirt gives way
and I’m am a tumble
of slips
and gasps
and reaches.
My toes slip through
the frigid air
and I’m caught between
you and now
and it’s a mystery
that finds only
mismatched puzzle pieces
instead of easy answers.
Who is this me
that exists without you
and who was that girl
who you loved
in that microsecond of us?
I wonder if I’m made
from these moving boxes
and dingy white walls
or if leaving is what made me.
So much leaving
that I must be stitched
from beautiful moments
and sad ones
and pieces of shattered ones
that disappear
like snowflakes on the sea.
Or perhaps I’m what you made me–
strong and simple and yours.
I’m a lock with a key
that I don’t even have
because I’m such a tangle
of strings being pulled with the tides
that I look in the mirror
and see strange eyes
and I hear a voice
that belongs to
an older version of me
who wonders
what she’s doing here
in this place
when she belongs
on another coast
in the hands
of a different man
who knows her like
no other could.
Identity used to be
so much clearer,
crystalline images
of past, present, and future
distilled into being
but age has brought only clouds
to obscure the clarity.
I’m not those boxes
or walls
or the sea shells
we gathered on sepia beaches.
I’m not young and fragile
or old and strong.
I’m not yours
or his
or even mine.
Except that I’m
all of these things,
all parts of this perfect disaster,
this whirling wind of me.

Written in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge–Digging for Roots

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8 thoughts on “The Me I Turned Out to Be

    • Thank you so much! I’m so glad you felt it. I wrote the first line and saved it as a draft because I didn’t know what else to say. So when I read the prompt, the rest came out. I just hoped it made some kind of sense. Thanks again! 🙂

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