The scene: Me—in cardboard relief.
High heels and briefcase,
woman of worth lifted by the wind and placed anew.
A soul of congenital uncertainty, I ask:
How can I be enough?
The words don’t come but it’s okay.
Collected achievements negate the need to speak up.
That’s what I tell myself.
Creative output is my voice
screaming to kill off the monotonous predictability of old habits.
A zig zag path marked by deliberate lightning bolts
of quiet non-conformance.
Life’s limits are my grey area.
It’s harder when you know they’re not real.