You speak of me
in the third person,
of “them”
of “those”
of “others”.

I want to speak
but I am unseen,
unrecognisable
in my otherness.

An inside stranger
with no voice
for that which ought to be
out there
at arms length
but is a stranglehold,
a bite mark
in the elbow bend
of assumption.

How have I landed
in this place
of privilege
and it is better
to rock the boat
or step out of it?

Perhaps I have
become “other”
to myself.

Perhaps
I am

me.