The Fake

I am a fake

A mistake in a suit bearing fruit unlike that from which it came

Just the same

I stand unsmiling

Defiling those who stand in picket lines

Pay fines

Cry and whine

For one, small chance

To stand where I am standing now.

How

Did it go this far

To where I lost sight of the things with my name on them

To where I lay claim to other’s belongings because they were practical

And didn’t carry a stigma

An enigma in one room

With 64 eyes

All seeking answers

Speaking words they have yet to know how to pronounce

Denounce them.

Announce with a flourish, that though they are special

You were never really meant for this

For them

What are we really meant for, after all?

I am a fake

A mistake in a crumpled suit

Throwing accusations like boulders

Hurling expectations over shoulders of backs bowed and bent from anticipating my heels

I don’t know how it feels to fit tight

To fight

To reach for what is good- not just what is right

To light the torch and run deep into the night simply because someone else might see it

And know

That someone other than them is running

Running toward something

Not to run away

Or to find anything

Simply, to run

Because it is what I choose to do

Not what other’s expect

Or request

Or ingest

Or ascertain

Or place blame

Or diagnose- insane

In the sun or in the rain

Because I forgot my name

I’ll run until I find it

And shed the suit along the way

I was a fake.

I’m not today.