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.
Ma’am, does your luggage contain any agricultural plant or animal species?
Do my roots count?
My home is a diaspora
No longer “the” diaspora
Because each place is foreign to the other.
(and I am foreign to myself)
I have integrated thoroughly enough into this new territory
That it’s time to confuse myself once more
Let’s dig up those roots again
Home is found in the digging process.
Home is somewhere mid-air by an oval window with some ginger ale and no leg room.
I am unsure how much you are willing to know.
How will you know me? (what will I say)
Will you be willing? (what will you hear)
What can I teach? (too much too much too fast)
I am filled with pain and stories and moments that demand to be shared
with you? (who else)
Do you want them? (do they soften)
I continue to breathe next to you, unsure how to tell you that I have a lot to tell you