Silent.

there’s discomfort in my silence—my lips don’t separate the same between sentences. who am i if not surrounded by familiar sounds of my childhood? may i be laid down on a bed of aged polaroids—will cycles return? how do i tell him between each kiss i’ve grown more forlorn. i rehearse my goodbyes before each encounter because my stays never feel welcomed, will this quiet home welcome me or send me packing. will i be forgiven for things out of my control? will my tongue grow tired of holding back fear? will i be loved in the midst of a burning community? have my knees become too tired being bent before it, how could these kind eyes be so angry and so scared at once? perhaps this new home has ripped me from my roots. perhaps, unbeknownst to me, there are greater discoveries to be made. perhaps— New York is meant to break me. perhaps, i was never broken. perhaps, i’ve been broken all along.