Immigrant

Spoken language, Like running water, without spaces and traffic lights. And I? Fragmented. Who am I? From where do I come? My language is all I am at the moment. Defining, isolating, swaying the bits of me. Jungles, Here and there, Intertwined, Concrete.

I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks. Scout Finch, To Kill A¬†Mockingbird