A chameleon. If I was to be an animal that’s what I would be. Not the giraffe that looks over my room with an arched neck, head poised in regal silence, exuding a power grounded in its stance. But a chameleon, hidden, merged between the wall and the door. As each environment changes the skin that cloaks my mind and bristles on my tongue tries to assimilate, reformulate and authenticate a new persona. But that’s all it is. A mask, only just fitting over my prominent features, the elastic cutting grooves into the back of my fragile skull, vacant yet full. Full of presumptuous ideas which define to me how I should be.
So my tongue rolls and contorts itself forming accents I do not belong to, creating allusions and illusions which will undoubtedly fall through, if you poke hard enough.
I am trying and trying to fit into that mould. Yet the more I squeeze and take control, the more I see that you, the ideal me, is freely relaxing in the salty sea breeze of peace. You are who I wanted to be. You know the places, the stories, you have and proudly own the names they distorted which I went on to abhor, resorting to the easier pronunciation, making my identity as malleable as the persona of a successful whore.
I feel so hollow inside- striving to know whether the fractured, uneducated in certain respects, person that others adore – if she can sit equally with you on a level floor. Whether you see the vacant holes that run through her pores, exposing the flaws of this mis-matched persona.
It’s like a yearning that is devouring my core. Depending on who knocks at my door, that’s the mask I choose to wear, that’s the story I begin to share. Am I a poor reflection of the ideal dream, with all the colour and vibrancy that appears to be…authentically ethnically ‘me’.
Ostracised by my choice to study the arts and not the internal parts of engines and water coolers, extracting benzine and grappling with mathematic formulas. Brought up in a home which cultivated a musical aesthetic that didn’t interact with the hard-hitting, hard-headed music of the streets. Now mangled lyrics, half formed verses tumble forth unaware if they’re subversive, or simply premature.
This is an internal battle that is devouring my core, as i sit beside on you on this even floor. Tired of hearing you calling me by the name I chose, yearning to hear the familiar ring of the identity I was born into, the one that expresses me from conception to the fulfilment of the birth plan.
Sitting on the fence, a lost child yearning for deference, acceptance, validation that the hollow form you bring as an offering, is welcome in this temple of ethnic origins.