Half a lifetime, and decades
since the first march, yet
still not drawn into their maps.
Still worth less to the landscape than
the precious facades
of their buildings.
Still just a fae place,
only visible when the light is just right.
Which is to say,
when my appearance
can enhance their own.
Like make-up.
Like make-believe,
embedded in their imaginations
but not their reality.
Like some rare and risky
freak of nature,
viewed best from afar.
Half a lifetime in, and
I am still required to be an island.
By a culture that insists
no one can be.
And so insists that
I am
no one.
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