When I open my mouth to speak
or lift my hands to write
or ready my body for movement:
I fear becoming a mimic.
I fear being inauthentic.
I fear making something
that maybe isn’t mine after all.
I fear being a creator
As I fear having been created.

Am I real enough?
Are my words mine enough?
Am I enough?
Still, I speak and write and move
and wait
and see.

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