I roam, always looking over my shoulder,
Remembering who I was, where I’ve been.
Too long I’ve spent with eyes cast back,
My focus on who I’ve been,
Not who I am.
My past does not define me,
Rather, it defines who I’m not.
That beast of burden, of judgement;
That felt like a haven on the best of days,
And a cell on the worst;
With suffocating walls and hopeless dreams;
Playing the game of who’s who,
Laughing, sneering at those who are nothing;
It is my cage no longer.
I am who I am, not because of it,
But in spite of it.
It was my home once.
I make my own home.
I am free.
I am me.