Usually I’d start by thinking of a line or phrase and go from there, talk about a phase trapped in a mind of mine,  in a maze. I'm telling the story of my life because it's always been the same. That's why in this case it's different.

I tell myself, but never hear me.  Which one of us, I or me, I am is even to myself a mystery, hits like thunder, left in agony not choosing one or another yet always ending - misery.

It's clear to me but I don't seem to see what I'm supposed to be.
Don’t you see? See what's wrong with me or how I be, to the world I'm just me.

caught myself between identities. I look at me, say he’s full of lies, lacking similarities tied to family expectancies while grasping at more western tendencies.

I keep coming up with metaphors to endorse what my heart sealed off behind lost doors. But at the same time something makes me think my doors need be opened, forgetting it was ever called “lost”.

It's time I take a step back and let me move onward. I’ll search all the doors I never spoke about. This now is me, a ruin of myself, writing in a language I never said out loud.