I look at myself in photographs.
In mirrors.
In memories.
And I do not know who I am,
or who that person was or is.
I do not see myself in those people.
At times, not even in the woman who bore me.
Nor in the man who helped her.
Nor in the boys who stole my lips many times over.
Nor in myself.
I am disconnected.
I find myself in strangers.
In places that do not exist.
In corners.
In the emptiness.
Where I am not defined.
Stereotyped.
Judged.
Confined.
Where I just am.
And that is okay.
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