borrowed fragments
I slip in and out of selves,
trying them on like forgotten coats,
but none feel like home—
perhaps because home is a language
I was never taught,
syllables slipping through my fingers,
sentences unraveling before I can speak them.
I drift through mirrors,
a visitor in my own reflection,
watching life unfold like a play
where I am both the actor
and the audience,
never quite inside the scene.
I build myself from borrowed fragments,
fill the hollow spaces with passing light,
but something in me stays unmoored,
adrift, aching —
always searching for the words
that make me real, tactile even.
— Lux
