How many times?

How many times do I have to be reborn?

I am someone new every time I move on

living the same dilemma in a different land

trying to properly answer the question that they ask me non-stop

“Do you like it here or do you prefer it there?”

What is the difference anyway?

here and there feel the same when neither of them loves you back

and I know, they want to hear me say that my heart belongs to America 

so that they can confirm the existence of the outsider they see in me 

it’s the same question every time 

but the fine line

between the lies and the fake smiles

is hidden behind my words, “oh they’re both fine”

How many times?

How many times do I have to explain?

as if I dare to compare

home and blood

because since I met blood, I greet with “marhaba”

but still say “chao” whenever I leave home

since I met blood, I speak its language and love like a local

but still use this Latin kindness that home gifted me

apparently, you can’t be two things at the same time

so they assume I am lost

and maybe I am

lost because I have felt too much until I became too numb 

I still wander the halls of a hollow heart that has confused notalgia with love 

desperately wanting to belong

and the song they all sing in there echoes, “she’s not one of us”

while I secretly pray, “please accept me once and for all.”

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