I am sorry
you will never feel
the warmth of the sun on your skin,
or how the wind rustles your hair
as you walk down the street
in that summer dress,
the one that called out to you
from amongst the indifferentiable heaps
at your favourite flea market.

I am sorry
that your every word is filtered,
your every action controlled,
your every desire suppressed,
lest someone should discover
your existence,
your tenancy,
inside this shell
we tell the world is ‘me’.

I am sorry
that my life exists instead of yours,
and that it is my face
you are forced to see in the mirror,
and my name
you are forced to answer to,
in a voice so different
from the soft sweet melody
longing to escape your lips.

I am sorry
that my being in the light
leaves you lost in the shadows.
I was given no choice.

I wish I could grant you
the freedom to love as you desire,
who you desire,
how you desire,
and take from you
the confusion,
the sadness,
the fear
wrought by the world outside
as it reminds you, daily,
that there is no place for you here.
As it dismantles, daily,
that impossible life,
the dream of which
you so desperately cling to.

I know
my being here
makes you feel lonely,
and abandoned,
and that no solution seems in sight.
But I don’t know
where you end
and I begin.
And so
I don’t know
who it is I feel more sorry for:
or me.
Or if it makes a difference.

All I know is:
Neither of us ever truly was
or can be.


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