I crave a life so different from my own, nostalgic for a time before I was born.
There’s an insatiable yearning, that I fail to smother. No matter how much I defy the longing inside . . .
I crave for a life that’s now my own.
I wish I was ink on paper, living a million lives at once.
A life that wouldn’t need a translator, because, for once, the language would allow me to articulate the constant weight of the crushing dread always sitting heavy atop my chest.
I’ll take anything and everything apart from my own. For just a day, I wish my soul resided in a different vessel, from a different time, a different world.
For just a day, I wish I could escape the social confinements that accompany my every waking moment. For just a day, I wish to bask in the liberties of not being me. I promise, a day is all I need.
If it’s the hard way I must learn, then so be it. Why is it of all the people I could’ve been, I am Me?
Why is my own self-loathing so suffocating, I can’t breathe. Why must I be?
I ache for days never lived. Chasing the unattainable, but everyday the possibility strays farther away. Far from my reach, grazing my fingertips ever so slightly, yet never truly within my grasp.
Just a taste, so tempting . . . teasing and taunting, I want more, no, I want it all
I crave for a life so different from my own. A life that will never be mine.