whisperings

These prints proclaim my separateness.
(throat thickens, heart quickens, brow furrows into restless desperation).

“How do I reinvent the past?” 
            or, even more anxiously,

“Must I destroy it?”

Ancient words ring audibly.
Words of proud families and excited friends.

It was natural. 
     It was usual. 
           It was comfortable. 
                It was expected.
Like those first noticed warm breaths in the morning. 
Like the feeling of feet in shoes.

If everyone was so sure then, how am I supposed to fit?

From this angle, I’m much too small. 
I fit in the cupboard that’s forgotten on the corridor. 
Mind-forged fetters contain me - but how could I complain?