I scattered my life far enough
to never have to live it whole.
In every place, I leave behind
a useful version of myself:
the one who laughs,
the one who endures,
the one who says we
without too much shame.
Whenever I travel
from one place I call home
to another that makes the same claim,
my voice changes,
my pace, my habits.
My face remembers what to become.
I am good at this:
seeming present
while already going missing somewhere else.
Someone keeps my place
with the patience reserved for the dead
who still reply to messages.
Then my birthday comes.
Faces gather on a screen,
the birthday song arriving
half a second late.
I smile, say thank you,
even pretend to make a wish.
The truth is less elegant:
I called it freedom;
my inability to stay.
I blow out the candle.
In the dark,
only one version of me remains:
the one no one would choose
if choosing meant
taking me whole.