Displaced

This is not my heart.
I'm not so haphazard.
I'm unlikely to act on it.
I'm thinking it wise to halt it.

This is not my skin.
I'm not who I seem.
I'm ripping and tearing through it.
I'm existing as a stranger within it.

This is not my body.
I'm simply a borrower.
I'm waging a war against it.
I'm needing to be rid of it.

This is not my residence.
I'm a wandering refugee.
I'm not a fixed tenant at it.
I'm relying on moving from it.

This is not my life.
I'm living someone else's.
I'm eager and ready to return it.
I'm learning how I've out-grown it.

This is not my summation.
I'm so much more still.
I'm irked by what's composed it.
I'm surviving, to expand it.