Maybe a gift…

To be shown
how you do not fit
and to see
you do not fit
and to feel
you do not fit
and to see,
finally,
how underneath
all of your
persuasion
and dancing
and performance
you, so badly,
want to fit.

The pain of it
is of a different quality
of a secret quality
a quality not spoken off,
kept in the dark places
kept at bay
by the performance
of trying to fit
and resenting the trying.

The ebb and flow of the ego
resenting that
which is not of itself
resenting that which
threatens
it’s facaded walls

The ebb and flow of the self
resenting the performance
resenting the denial
of the self
in disbelief.

How can you forgo your natural self
in the face of such primacy
of feeling.

In the face of such knowledge.

How is it,
in the face of such knowledge
and feeling of yourself
and your deepest secrets
you can still
perform
and so desperately
try to fit it
at the cost of everything.

I am so heartbroken of myself
so heartbroken.

But I am not lost.
No.

After all, as the wise woman says,
what else is a heart for?