Impostor in My Home

My house, my home, my beach: I swim with ease. But the wave comes and drowns me. I'm in danger; I won't be able to get out of here. I want to escape, I want a home where I feel safe. I'm a walking farce, an imposter within my own body, within my own home.

I'm searching for a map I should know by heart, but I've lost the coordinates, the keys to the river I've crossed millions of times. Your gaze says it all: I won't make it. I'm not good enough.

If I ever promised that everything would work out, I apologize—I believed that lie too.

This group isn't for me. I don't belong, I don't fit in. I'm the ugly duckling, the black sheep, the rejected cat, the outcast Wednesday in the middle of the party, the different one that nobody invited.

I want to rediscover the confident boy who once feared nothing, the little hero who believed in the future. I want to be someone else. I want to break myself completely to be reborn. But like this… this way… I won't be able to.

I want to learn to measure my words, I'm terrible at it: I speak awkwardly, I feel awkwardly, I exist awkwardly, because of the imposter that lives within me.