i have my story,
and it is my story,
and it is me.
i fear my story,
and i hate my story,
and i need my story
so desperately.
i am nothing
without my story.
i have nothing
but my story.
i am so afraid
without my story,
and i am so alone.
if i take my story,
own my story,
tell my story,
live my story –
what then of the story
i have lived with so long
despite it being a lie?
where do i go from here
if all i have left
is the truth
of my story,
and even i
disappear?