I grew a map of myself in my head

and I changed it constantly

according to my fancies and your whims,

resenting myself for the way I grew in unsteady fits

rather than perfectly ripe with the warmth of the sun

I drew a map of myself on the back of my hands

and I didn‘t care that that‘s bad for one’s skin

because there was nothing else I trusted to hold the essence of myself than the cells of this body, the one that has carried me all these years

and I resented myself for never having mastered the art of drawing

so all I was left with was a wonky portrait of someone that I thought resembled someone I’d once known, proportions all wrong,

lightyears away from who I have become already

I dreamt a map of myself on the shores of a fitful sleep

and it was nothing like myself at all,

because dreaming and drawing and growing can never quite capture all the endlessly fine lines that I am, the thin branches that wrap around me when the wind sings, the roots that dig deeper into the soil of my own garden every season without me noticing, until I’m so solidly rooted it won‘t be possible to get rid of myself again,

like a little pest I‘ll be around (me, and the house, and the garden, and the skin) forever and I won‘t mind

because I know my ways inside out, by heart by now

I know the roads that lead to where I am, they are printed in my brain

because I’ve grown and drawn and dreamt them

since I can remember

a road map to myself that only I could have drawn

I grew a map of myself in my head

and now I threw it away because I don’t need it anymore, since

a) maps are for those who are scared of getting lost, and

b) maps are instruments to charter fixed territory

but I found that I keep changing and re-arranging the alleyways of me

so I’ve given up on maps

and am content to keep re-discovering who I am

in bouts and fits of growth and laughter

I’ll find myself again and again

I am not worried anymore, about losing myself –

I am home.