there is a moment of silence as if you are waiting for a response. of course, nothing comes, and you didn’t expect anything to.

“i am afraid that i am turning into a version of myself that nobody, including me, will like,” you say softly. “it wouldn’t matter if nobody else liked me, as long as i liked me. but i don’t even like me. i am too …”

after a brief silence, you finish your sentence. your voice is barely audible as though you are confessing a great sin, which, in some way, perhaps you are:

“something. i am just something.”

you are not sure what it means, but at the same time, you understand precisely. afraid to say more, you roll over, pull the covers tight up under your chin. at 2:58 a.m., you drift into a fitful sleep, pondering the meaning of “something”—if it means too little or too much or not much of anything at all—and what it means that you feel so strongly acquainted with the sensation.

the wheel

they say

fate works in

mysterious ways.

it can be kind.

it can be cruel.

it can be boring—

so boring that you

may be stuck wondering

whether fate is paying

you any mind at all.

but don’t be mistaken;

fate is always working.

don’t ever think

the wheel is not turning.

it is in motion

from the moment

you are born.

i wonder about the doors

that closed throughout

my life,

the different paths

i walked away from.

i wonder if there’s a life

out there where

i still dance,

a life where i fought

against the awkwardness

my body seemed predestined

to carry until i could

leap, twirl, and plié

with as much grace

as the rest of the girls in my class.

i wonder if there’s a life

out there where

i still play piano

the way i did

before i found singing,

a life where opera

never ignited

that never-ending flame

in me, and piano

remained enough,

remained all i needed.

i wonder if there’s a life

out there where

i don’t write,

a life where i never

discovered poetry,

never grew to need

to create it like

i need to breathe,

and i found other places

to bury my pain.

in all these lives,

i believe i am happy.

these versions of myself

do not know what path

they missed out on.

they’ve all found their own

passions and callings.

and perhaps

part of them longs anyway,

when watching an opera

from the orchestra pit

or going to support

their friend at an open mic,

just as i do when i see

a ballerina pirouette with ease

or hear one of chopin’s nocturnes.

perhaps each of us is lucky

in our own different ways,

both blessed and cursed by

the lives we have created for ourselves.