perhaps i wasn’t born for this.
is it etched in my skin,
a tattoo of failure that follows
me wherever my words take me?

they pull me down,
anvils on the dock,
seagulls pecking at my skin,
offering the freedom i can’t have.

i wish my words could be the wings
that could carry me away
from the place where i’m inadequate.
where i could be real, in my own skin.

instead, they’re thrown back at me,
hateful darts into my skin.
if only i could pluck them out
and send them where my heart belongs.