DEATH TO SELF

I see, hear and feel the truth, but it does not set me free.
Rather, it pricks my heart with a finely cut dagger.
I miss the you’s through out my life, all those I’ve had to say goodbye to.
Why? Why must it always be goodbye?
You were friend, you were family, you were my heart,
and now I’m gone, in what feels like an ever expanding expanse.

But I will keep you, in a pocket within my heart.

I miss the me’s that have faded, the versions of myself that are dead, that are gone, that are changed.
In most ways, for the better. In some ways, for the worst.
I like me. I hate me. I love myself. I hate myself. Depending on the day.
But it’s okay. I accept who I am and who I’m not.

I lean against the tide of emotion, against the tides of change,
until the tide lifts me up, my feet off the earth’s crust,
propelling me beyond this atmosphere, where no one can see me.
Just for a little while.
Until I no longer care that I’m not seen.
Death to self, the objective to disappearing.

But I will keep a part of myself, too, in a pocket within my heart.

— Saskia Lynge / Hour 6