J’ai peur de la langue française.
J’ai peur de la langue française.
J’ai peur de la langue française.
J’ai peur de la langue française.
J’ai peur de la langue française.
J’ai peur de la langue française.
Author: Olavia Kite
They said I should go out.
And so I did.
Sunshine at last!
My legs were moving.
My blood was flowing.
I heard my voice.
I laughed.
I wished you were here.
I always wish you were here.
You will be here, right?
Just wait a second.
Time is faster than we think.
I will be there.
We will be somewhere.
Together.
Our hands will clasp.
Our eyes will meet.
I’ll hear your voice.
They said I should go out.
I’ll take you out with me.
Just wait a second.
I have two flags right there.
Right there, on my binary showcase.
One says where I was born.
The other, where I live.
Both of them are the same.
Treasures, skies and seas, and blood.
I wanted to change one into the Rising Sun.
Variety seemed fashionable.
A flag so unique seemed fashionable.
Showing off this love seemed fashionable.
But then I thought it was a really stupid idea.
I’m not there.
I wish I were there.
My heart is there.
My heart is with him.
Maybe his heart is here too.
Our hearts are mingled.
I won’t be there until my body is there.
I can’t pretend that I’m all shiny there when I’m really here.
Speaking the language is not being there.
Eating the food is not being there either.
And I wasn’t born there.
I wish I were, but I wasn’t.
I can’t deny my nationality.
My unvisable nationality.
I am what I am.
Flags will change when life does change.
Otherwise, I’m just a poseur.
And then I type again, co.
It worked for Penelope…