I have filled myself with others’ stories.
Stories to avoid my own.
Stories to carry,
to listen to on repeat in my own head late at night,
when I am forgetting to be writing my own.
Stories of pain
and difficulty and happiness and
memories, felt or lost or forgotten
until they are told out loud.
I have been overflowing with other selves
I absorbed, mistakenly
trying to fit them into my own concave interior,
a container to be filled and shipped
somewhere far. I yearn to lock
and steal these stories inside of me,
take them to a new place where I might bury them,
and as I dig their grave, in the soil I find
myself, waiting to be lifted out and taken home.