“I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.” ― Virginia Woolf, The Waves
I am my unknown,
an hour vacillating
between memories
and chasing minutes.
When I think I have
the mountaintop in sight,
I blink to find myself
roaming a cactus valley.
Are scars lessons learned
or the armor of survival?
Shards and threads are mute,
but I press them for answers.
Where are you in the empty streets?
I’m a thousand impulses
searching for direction.
I can’t decide if I’m lost or unfamiliar with freedom.
