Something like rain, something like poetry
is only felt through one’s own skin.
I am asked
“how do you do it?”
I do it out of fear
of missing out, of not being able to find out
what could have been.
So many walls and not enough doors,
so much of skin covering and holding back
everything that wants to explode and dissolve
with everything else.
I wonder why I forgot to put “be happy”
on my list of things to do before I turn thirty.
The sticky note on my mirror of affirmations says
“if not now, then when.”
I read it out loud every day, then stir my coffee
and go back to my desk dreaming of
Halong Bay cruise, and the Northern Lights.
These days I am trying to discover when exactly
did I forget that
the one responsible for my happiness was I myself;
that the outcome of every blame-game
is the realization that
it happened to me because I let it.
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