I Belong Everywhere

I have been to Paris with old lovers,
Paris with new friends,
I have written poetry in pencil on the bells of Notre Dame,
and damned myself to hell as I fell from the Eiffel Tower.

I belong everywhere.
Daughter of dark nights, star filled skies and the melody of moonlight.
Siren of slipping into sleep,
then awaking in a dream,
but it’s never the same,
because I could never stick to one place.

I have been to the moon.
I didn’t stay,
it didn’t leave an impression.
Before long,
I was back on the barren rock I call home,
swaying with the wayward winds,
staring with a slight sneer at that big bitch in the sky,
wondering why I gave her so much power.

I understand the moon.
I have often agonised for hours over minutes of conversation,
worrying that I didn’t leave an impression,
some kind of connection that keeps them coming back,
so that I am not on this rock, all alone.

I went back to the moon,
to see what I could do.
Not out of obligation,
or because I was locked in her sad eyes,
just because I saw myself in her solemn stare,
and decided I needed to free myself from that sad image.

I belong everywhere and I belong to no one.

Again.

I belong everywhere and I belong to no one.