I’m not sure I’d fight for it
No, that’s not right.
I have never been the kind to stay.
I spill into spaces,
take their shape,
but never quite fit.
Too much for the cracks,
too little for the open air.
I stretch, I shrink,
but still, I slip through.
Yet I know which places feel soft,
which light is kind.
Some people sink into place,
trees in fertile ground
their presence settling like a well-worn chair.
I teeter, off-balance,
a table with one short leg.
a seed in the wrong season.
Ask what I believe,
I will hesitate,
not because I don’t know,
but because
I’m not sure I’d fight for it.
I think I admire them,
the ones who say “I am this,”
and do not blink.
I think I-
I think I wish I-
No.
Never mind.