i get a late night call. she cries into the speaker. she says, “if i can't make myself a home here, i guess i don't belong anywhere! am i still a stranger getting on and off trains? will anyone ever know my name? will i find my place? i feel like something in me will never be good and i can't shake it.”
the map gets larger as you get older, and there's a pin here! here! and there! there! where are we going? should we keep roaming? there must be ways to find comfort in the question mark, in the no answer, in the constant dark, so why do we still want to fit when the world just just just just just just rejects us?