A haunting reflection on identity, consciousness, distance, and the quiet spaces between what we feel and what we can explain.
There’s a part of me that forgets I’m human
and it fabricates emotions,
Telling me I feel them.
Convincing me rather.
So that I don’t have to struggle to believe something so
Far out of reach.
I am a practical thing,
Tactile,
But, my feet don’t quite touch the floor
And there are clouds around my eyelids that prevent me
That protect me
From sight.
I talk to the sun and thank it for its warmth,
That kisses my skin each day;
I give it my sweat in return
One substance for another.
To live was a bargain between realms
Lustfully coveting one capability over another
Resting my cheek on what never belonged to me
And never will.
There’s parts of me that knows i’m not human
But they remain hushed, like the undertones of the wind
But they speak
But they speak
And I hear nothing else.
“What The Empire Never Intended: Love, Heritage & Identities That Defy Tick Boxes” was created for Black Ballad members, but you can have access to three stories a month, including this one, by signing up for free!
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