My story isn’t mine and our stories are not ours,
for taking ownership of one’s life is to claim control
and I very seldom feel in control.

Everything I do wholeheartedly depends on something else,
or someone else.
As melody relies on interpretation and stars depend on darkness,
I am in need. 
I need to create,
be, become.
I want to be noticed whether it be praise or hatred.
See me; I am here. See me; I am. See me; I. See me. See.

One day slipping will become fallen and screaming will become silent,
but I am here.
Sinking into the abyss of the silent ocean, I climb the krill towards the surface.
It is unsteady and discolored,
but I’m getting closer.
I can taste the crisp air that presses its warmth on the waves.
I feel it in my lungs and I wonder
if it feels me too.

The petals of my wilted iris are fading,
but soon spring will startle me from sleep and I will dream.
I will dream of a day when lava fills puddles on the street and crumpled paper is new,
a day when anything can happen.
I will dream of the impossible and I will pretend it’s real.
My story isn’t mine,
but I imagine
it is.