outskirts
I am
a quiet tornado picking up pieces of the world I cut through
scattering and fragmenting the people and places and things
I'm supposed to love
but the only way I know how to love
is to be just like them.
And so I squash my whirlwind and quieten my fury
A pathetic attempt to become what I am not.
And the cynical voice grows louder—
Where are you trying to stay?
You have nowhere to call home.
You are not welcome here
nor there.
No one shall want to take you in
and you shall not want to take anyone in.
Beautiful things will break
if I get too close to them.