I'm stateless.
In the country I reside, they call me alien. A return to the country I was born does not yield a change in language. I traded one for another, so what I have gained becomes loss. My existence is marked by an attachment to negation. I attempt to claim space, but dark matter cannot be seen. I walk through the world, and the world walks through me.
I'm stateless.
My imagination is the only place where I find refuge for my existence. It is there, where I can conceal the holes in the roof, plaster over the rotting walls, and imagine the warmth of wood burning. My cheeks are singed with awareness, the heat reminds me of something I've only ever felt in passing.
The Earth promised safe haven. It gave me water to drink, and leaf to suckle, but it did not promise me protection or actualization. I walked through treacherous jungle and vine, and made it to shore, because I believed that only on the sand could I commune with the other side of my family. Mother gave me life but how could I explain that the shrubbery, and the domineering branches of the trees, shrouded my ability to look upon the only things remaining which could promise me a full life? I tried to put flame to incense, but it could not replicate the sting of the suns ray.
Water rushes over my feet, sometimes softly, sometimes with aplomb, but no matter its temperament, it leaves silt on my toes. I offer the grain goodbye each time the tide begins to rise. Sun gives way to moon, but still I stand, eyes low, sometime high. I know I can't hold onto this forever, but what's next is unclear.
There's water in front of me, and jungle behind. The shore is my only reprieve but it leads to diametric dead ends. What then do I do?