it’s true, i wrongly thought of your clavicles as home,
but only because it was the only thing that felt remotely
like home, but even then, it was fleeting.
maybe people like me weren’t meant to intimated
with the concept of a home –
maybe people like me were meant to be vagrants.
there’s no place on a map i can point to,
and tell you of my ancestral roots with certainty,
there are no people that would consider me kin,
we bear a passing resemblance and it stops there:
there’s no mutual language we can converse in,
there’s no shared experience to bond over,
i imitate the motions of belonging,
but it’s not hard to spot the outsider
looking in.
