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No one is an outcast on a land breathing every names that has existed, I whisper to the plumage gliding to the orchard adjacent to where I belong, recalling words my mother wrote on my tear-stained diary's sheet. I was 6, too young, when my adorned pen formed sorrow and chagrin. I learned early that light can bruise and innocence is an animal startled by its own shadow. The sky did not bend to cradle me and I mistook breadth for divinity. Yet her sentence endured alike to a psalm folded into the sleeves of my lungs. No one is an outcast on a land breathing every names that has existed. I am a name that is existing. The land breathes my name. I mouthed it like a charm against the metallic taste of shame.

Now I am sauntering along a terrain that stains the hem of my dress. I am apprenticed to moss, tide, migrating birds. Somewhere ahead is a same-shaped companion, another pilgrim listening the thicket of noise. And I know, I am accounted for, inscribed, held. @BarrenMoorBot.

Full of devotion, @NEVEESHT.
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