AN ODE TO MYSELF

I'm wary of the spotlight,
still the intrigue to be seen through a stranger's eyes,
how would you describe the bend of my wrists,
these bony knuckles for which I grew a lifelong distaste.
I have learnt to live in shadows,
to lurk behind curtains,
to become one with walls.
I won't bother you with my existence.
You search for me everywhere,
but forget to look in the corners.
I'm well acquainted with my mind,
living in it for so long,
well versed with its sudden bouts of sadness,
and things I cannot explain.
Loneliness finds me even in rooms overcrowded,
riding on a wave of aloofness.
It might be some sort of resentment misplaced,
it belongs to people I've never met, tragedies I never witnessed
but permeated into this soul like how a bread soaks milk.
It creaks its way in my ramblings,
the omnipresent need to remove that luggage I lugged for eons.
Again fearing I might have over spilled
I retract my steps.
I do not want my name written on sand,
for I am a vagabond
riding a dragon of winged words
escaping the curse of oblivion.