You cannot be an island, no one can be, that is what they say. But you are surely not, obviously not, mainland.
So what on this earth, literally, are you?
A pennisula? Perhaps. No. Even better, well, not better, but more accurate, a presqu'île. Which is not an island, not at all, but closer to being one than a pennisula. That is you. Joined to the mainland only by the long slender curve of your neck. Head on the mainland, body and viscera finding their ground in the surrounding ocean.
Understanding finally, you allow the soft fingertips of mercy to trace the outline of your lips. Your smile will never be the same.