POETRY

Half of Myself to Offer

The remainder is composed of assorted ineffable shades

I’m slowing down just for you syncing mouth to mind offering a patched-up smile, favored words fill the silences.

In the light, I cannot thrive as forms propagate underneath, every curve in the glistening sand matched by a gravel bed unseen.

1440 minutes spent without you, seclusion drowning my lungs more, more, more, it seethes again, the process halts incomplete.

If I hand in insufficient records, What was all of it for? Hours spiraling vague passages, places I’d vowed never to revisit.

Interwoven patterns preserve me human, with dust and magic, inviting me within, enticing, fearing, escaping the cool of my surfaces.

Whispered like a lucid daydream, no longer wishing to be plain, what is hidden cannot be heeded, snarling, daring you to pretend.

In the theatre, I perform each night never-ending acts, all for one, an invested audience I do not desire, the stars casting an undying spotlight.

I created a palace, then a kingdom, fortified walls touching the sky, pores I feel by hand, indelible lines turning findings over, one by one.

Versions I created in my head, rigorous rehearsals I put me through to belong, to be seen as one of them details suppressed and discarded.

If I could, I would stay in effortless, a puppet made of wood waxed to shine, vehemence I cannot comprehend envelop me in their generous embrace.

In between these bottomless crevices, where I once pursued the truth — answers to set me free forever, are obscure parts of me untouched.

What if I kept lies close, flaws closer, observe their transforming spirits, blocked the clocks, chains, and dates, told me to walk, to keep walking alone.

Author’s Note:

The idea for this poem came from two questions I couldn’t answer.

What if self-exploration was not an end? Instead of thinking that its goal was to figure myself out or to make things easier, I could turn into an observer. Stop looking for permanent fixes, and do it only for the process.

Part of why I worked on myself was to create a reasonable version — one that I could present to others without dying of discomfort on the inside.

I wished for parts of me to fit, to not collide with each other. But that isn’t in my control. Nor do I need to accept them. Just acknowledging is enough.

And when it comes to the world, what if I offered only half of myself?