I tried to be her,
I really did.
If only I could drink, dance,
be merrier than I was.
If only I could stop parsing
the fine edges of life,
the sharp lava cliffs
beneath the oceanic surface,
I might be more One of You.
Less of Me.
I tried.
It does not work.
Some days I look in the mirror,
my face not old exactly,
but no longer young.
I no longer ask it
to be anything
other than how it arrives.
I don’t think I frighten anyone.
Little children still look at me
with genuine delight.
It is the adult world
that seems uncertain—
questioning me
as much as I question
its motives and directions.
Does anyone really know
what is going on?
Or are we all so busy
protecting our vulnerability,
our helplessness,
that we forget
how to simply meet one another?
I know my expressions
have long projected
a nonverbal cue:
leave me be—
or engage, depending.
I used to try so hard
to fit in,
to become someone
more pleasing.
How strange
to arrive at a place
where others may keep
their perceptions
and projections,
leaving me
simply
to Be.