(Self) Identity

And maybe I’m misinformed, but I think I’ve gone down this road before – holding on with knuckles exposed, ready to take the punch – holding on to myself, the only thing I’ve ever really owned, if not known. Frayed jeans and shoes that can kick up hurricanes, I’m running. Away from the house, away from the knowledge, away to the great river of Egypt; the longest river in the world, made up of other people’s inability to believe. I’m running to add mine to the water, to whisper all of my no’s, my it-can’t-be’s, all the while gripping myself with a bone-clenching hold, afraid that I will get away from me.

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