down the checked tile 
and i let my feet talk.
i think only enough 
and i walk so hard with definition.
i look around and my skin feels rough-
wonder if it’s a good decision
to continue to make that choice;
the one that moves me-
confuses my voice.

i look at the checks on the floor
and i look at my skin some more -
strange how i give meaning
to the looks i get sent.
like i’m only walking on something for rent.
it’s not really mine, but it isn’t yours either.

if i dont move forward i’ll get moved, myself.
if i dont confront it, it clutters my shelf.