letting go of that which does not serve me

i turned 24 last week,

it wasn't a big affair. i am not good at being the center of attention,

the thought of having to make big decisions for myself makes me anxious,

much less for others.

to be responsible,

for someone else,

is a skill which should be heralded.

i pass by so many people,

with worlds on their shoulders.

not just theirs,

the atlas for others.

the ones who inspire me most,

hands down,

are the womxn of color,

the femmes of the global majority.

the ones with babies secured to their back,

and insurmountable will securing their front.

the ones who walk between cars,

offering what they can to make your day a little better.

a water bottle,

a bouquet,

canepas and mango.

we don't talk about them enough.

we don't support them enough.

-o-o-o-

when can i use a collective we,

without fear of pushback,

of the pendulum swinging back and smacking me in the face?

is it we,

if you do not fight with me?

is it we,

if you do not remember i am here fighting for you?

is it we,

when no one remembers me?

//o//o//o//

somebody that i used to know,

is such a melancholy title,

to have been someone known,

in past tense,

not dead,

but still past.

the person i used to know,

is not who they are anymore,

they cling to their memories of themselves,

they cling to the idea of who they thought they were,

but i am not sure if they've peered into a mirror lately.

i don't write here as freely as i used to,

my words yearn for coupling in a way that makes them seem like more,

makes them seem like poetry.

what defines a poem?

according to the internet

a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song that is nearly always rhythmical, usually metaphorical, and often exhibits such formal elements as meter, rhyme, and stanzaic structure.

is what i write poetry?

do these couplings of words count as stanzas?

is there a rhyme, a lilt, a pattern to my bursts of feelings spread across a screen?

i don't know.

i don't know a lot of things,

like who my "real" parents are,

or what my birth time is,

or whether or not i am predisoposed to the carpal tunnel i have,

or whether i look more like my birth mother or father.

i don't know what the point of life is,

or when it'll be my time to go,

i don't know how to let go,

but i'm trying with this.