The Bones of Belonging
I know what it means.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means living with the fear that you will be found out,
that all of your missing and broken parts
will leap from your chest
into the light,
and you will be left standing there
with your heart in your hands
but no one will meet your gaze.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means living with a restlessness
that no amount of moving can tire,
but you continue to believe you can outrun it
and so you try.
Over and over again you try,
leaving the dust of your latest escape
to settle on the hearts of those who loved you.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means learning to make your own masks
so that you have one for every occasion.
And every night you work
to repair the cracks in the cheeks
where you smiled a little too hard,
and repaint the surfaces
where your tears left their stain.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means climbing a mountain with no summit
in hopes that one may suddenly appear
out of nowhere.
A monument, a register,
a place to sign your name among others’
so that you can say you’re one of them,
even though you have no idea who they are
I know what it means to not belong.
It means feeling exhausted upon waking
because even in your dreams you are alone
searching the deserted streets of your psyche.
Begging, on the corners of your mind
for any validation they can spare:
Anything helps.
God bless you, have a nice day.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means walking alone past store window after window,
each a perfectly posed scene you long to be a part of
showcasing a closeness, an ease
that you can only imagine feeling.
And you knock on the glass
but they can’t hear you,
they have no eyes to see you.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means you’re still looking for yourself
in a sea of imposters who claim to be you,
who promise, this time it’s real.
But when you pull up your anchor
to begin your pursuit,
it’s just another fata morgana.
It was never really you.
I know what it means to not belong.
It means that you haven’t peeled your flesh
to examine your bones,
or whispered sweet nothings to your soul in the dark.
That you haven’t gazed at your shadows
without looking away,
and you flush in embarrassment and rage
when someone else mentions them.
I know what it means to not belong.
But I also know what it does.
It means grieving the time you were not allowed home
because you didn’t know how to get there,
because no one showed you how.
It means making a home in your bones
and carrying your belonging in their marrow,
so that no matter the spaces
or faces that surround you,
you will remember yourself
and invite her to be known.
Come home.
This is where you belong.
-Kim