If I close my eyes,
And remember, who I was then,
I feel as if both everything, and nothing at all has changed.
Strange skies wake me up, though they’ve been ‘home’ for over twenty years.
Strange people make me want to collapse into my skin, though they speak with the same accent as mine.
I attempt to shed the layers that have built my life,
Because some are painful.
Some are strange.
Some make me writhe.
Some make me twist.
It’s funny how I never look at a tree, with initials carved into its bark,
With its wonderful shape,
And think ‘pain, strange, writhing, twisted.’
Instead, all I feel is peace.
It’s still growing.
And baby birds sing, nestled close in its branches.