I wish I was back.
Hiraeth.
Homesickness for my lost past.
For delight that was never my
Own.
Keep me in the middle,
I vacillate.
The boats of stability and insanity are calling for me.
Their call echos.
I am still standing on the dock.
The port that keeps me at bay.
My clothes are white.
The ones you can see.
They show perfection, beauty, and sophistication:
Undergarments black and in tatters, needing
Revival.
The tatters show my true sentiments.
What I feel on the inside.
They change color; they
Are sometimes red.
Not the scarlet of love,
But the flames of anger.
Other times they are black; they place me in the depths.
I never know how to maneuver my way out of them.
A size too small; tight.
Keeps me suffocated.
They are so hard to describe.
They can be blue.
Not the blue of the sea, but the blue of the sky during a storm.
I have these often.
But the ones I use most of all are eclectic.
It’s colored black, red, and blue.
Make a gray mixed with purple.
But the purple is not Royal.
My vestments are ready for the sea of stability.
But what is my head ready for?
If you peeled back my layers,
What would you see?
Think.
Understand that my undergarments label me for my insanity.
They hold me back.
I keep vacillating.
I need to choose who I want to be.
Take me to the Abditory.
Keep me there.
Sometimes it feels like the dock that keeps me at bay is my foundation.
But,
It’s not steady.
Not a rock to plant my feet.
It cracks and breaks.
Needs to be fixed.
The selcouth bearing of familiarity
is its snare.
Which shall I choose?
Shall I fight the magnet force of the dock?
Or, will I choose a boat?
Will it fit my clothes or undergarments?