and what it felt like to write under another name

Say it. You are not made of straws.
Your fingers can hold porcelain, maybe you still have
nightmares of being a scarecrow but remember
that your legs can stand without electric wires.
Your back can unfold like a blueprint of a universe
and some parts can be constellations named after
the first time you felt connected to another being.
Someone who believed you were anything but impossible
even when there were parts of you that got stuck like blackholes
or a set of meteors about to hit another. There will be days,
when your lungs are asking to be under water.
Write those days in your diary, and count how many
entries you spent writing about wanting to be loved,
forgetting what it feels like to be the one loving,
and holding, and breathing for another. Your body
is not made of straws when your fingers can still write words,
when your lungs can still hold and let go of
something as precious as air. Say it.
You are anything but impossible. If you are,
then darling you don’t need to apologize for being
more, or even less, of what people are asking for,
when you are only being yourself.
—  Another Poem I Will Never Get Tired of Writing by Kharla M. Brillo