Identity Is a Rocket

Such a trendy term these days,
Identity is.
They study it at school,
Write dissertations,
Design workshops, attended
Voluntarily or not.
Identity is not my people.
Identity is not my personality.
Identity is a rocket.
The stages of its launch
Occur in order,
Workshops and studies notwithstanding.
Point zero.
"The rocket leaves the ground and begins its flight into space...
loaded with fuel and oxidizer, which can be toxic."
That is when my childhood ended.
That was when I first knew
What toxic meant.
"First stage:
The lowest stage of the rocket
ignites and lifts the vehicle
until its propellants run out.
The first stage then falls away,
making the rocket lighter
so the second stage can take over."
That was the loss of my home,
When the country in which I was born and raised
Ceased to exist, and I moved far, far away.
Since then,
There is no place on earth
I call home.
"Second stage:
The second stage
continues to accelerate the rocket
through the Earth's atmosphere
and into the Thermosphere,
where it can prepare for orbit."
Before getting there,
Let us mention the orbit.
What's there?
Is the orbital station waiting?
Or is there just the dark vaccuum
Where I become a mindless, purposeless satellite,
Circling the earth
Till the end of time?
I belong with the people
Wanting to believe in the former,
Taught to believe in the latter,
Believing in neither.
They are my people.
My second stage is those I love.
Oh, am I ever burning through it!
Little by little,
Slowly but surely,
One goes after another.
But there's still fuel in the tank.
I'm still going strong,
Only forward,
Never looking back:
To look back means
To feel the scar
Where the first stage used to be attached.
I am still going,
Not knowing what's up there.
My identity is what will remain
After the final stage is over
And I am prepared for orbit.
My identity is what's left to orbit
When absolutely all is said and done.
My identity is not a set of
Values,
Beliefs,
Or any other characteristics
That define me.
It is that tiny helpless toy rocket,
That the little boy plays with,
Detaching stages
One by one
'Cause they have run empty,
Until his mother calls him
To dinner.