when I throw stones at my own house to build something greater

I'm learning something about what it means to take care of myself. 

And I've stopped distancing myself from the imposter in the room. 

I am no longer the streets;

I am the trees. 

There's a pain in my chest when I think about my life.

This timeline that I've never written 

for fear that it will define me. 

I want to leave 

but this time I don't want to leave you. 

I want to leave what it means

to be the old me. 

This hot feeling inside my cheeks,

grazing my neck, 

it won't stop until I am fully

rid of me. 

I'll be something new. 

And it will be like sitting in my backyard 

while the wind hits my skin

and walks across my hair. 

It will be like doing nothing

and feeling everything. 

I will be bored 

and feel full.