alone
for years i lived with others,
in others, as others in a sense that my identity
was not mine unless there was someone else
upon which to see my reflection.
i had constantly sought mirrors in others’ reactions
to my every move and word as if alone,
my marks of life were too fragile to exist.
the reflections were often faulty, as others often are
when you are trying to see yourself through a remote lens
(i did not know that the identity which i wanted to see
was in fact right where i was, stitched into me)
so i lived, tormented and twisted with the gnarly veins of
discolored and misshapen refractions tightening themselves
into my eyes so that all i could see was the world
through a rotten net that i had let others sew onto me.
today i live alone.
the word still stings me like a faulty
claim about my identity, as if it is a negativity which i cannot afford,
but i now know better. because alone is a good thing,
alone in myself.
i live with myself, in myself,
as myself now, in a sense that my identity is solely mine
and i look to no other for any sort of reflection of my existence
because i stand before myself in a mirror
which i look through, alone,
and see the beauty that lies within and without me,
the person that i am when i do not look to others,
the identity which i create based upon myself
and my ideas. i look now to myself for my name,
a name which i can say with my own mouth,
create my own syllables,
and sing it out to the world without
waiting for a response or an echo.