Who are you?

I am made of glass

and tiny raindrops,

cinnamon sticks

and blades of grass,

whispers against warm skin

and lions hunting in the meadow.

I am fed by streams

and sunbeams through car windows,

pretty girls who sing off key

and hard liquor at midnight.

I forgot my name

somewhere along the way

and I never did know the answer to the question

“who are you?”

But at least I know what

peppermint tastes like

and what it feels like when the wind tries to blow your hat away.

One day I’m sure I’ll find myself.

Maybe somewhere in a deep, dark woods or

maybe in a skyscraper. But

until then, I guess I’ll just sit and watch my fingers

as they curl in against my palms

like flowers in the evening.

Someone once told me

that the eyes are the gateway to the soul

and I wonder if my changing shades

of hazel are a reflection of how

turned about I am or if

they are a sign that I can change things if I wish to

hard enough. I wonder if I want to change things or if

I’ll lose too much in the process. I wonder if it matters what I want

since things will always change, regardless,

and maybe tommorrow

I will be made of daffodils

and towels drying in the sun and

perhaps I’ll be feeding off of oyster shells

and oreo cookies and

I wouldn’t want to miss that,

now would I?







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