Here, My Dear

Sometimes I go quiet
I put on my shell and let the world carry on without me for a while,
but now I feel the words are streaming out of me, spilling from a boiling pot, lifting up the lid, gushing out.

To release me. so I can fall asleep already.

It’s lonely here.
Perfect and calm.

Here, my dear.

I’m walking barefoot on broken glass, a mirror, every step is a reflection of who I was and who I am.
A reflection of my failures, my losses, my joys, my love, my life.
My reflection looks older than the Me I remember.

I find it so hard when people who first knew me as She, met me only later as Shira.
People who had a relationship with me in their heads, it’s like they’re caught in the web
and the misconception of who they expect me to be.
It’s so tiring.
I don’t write my stories. I am my own story.
and I have missed my chance.

I’m 32, and probably should have gotten used to it by now, but it’s still so hard for me to be the odd one out.
I miss that sweet feeling of belonging.

Transactions are exciting. Passageways. Gentle dots of discovery.
The exact moment when seasons change. When light hits the dark. When you finally fall asleep.
No more distance.

I missed it here.
The blackness, the darkness, the open space, the room, the wide sheet I have all to myself.
Not another status update, no character limits.

A place of comfort and relief.
A place to implode, to collapse in the corner, to fall and to get up and start all over again.