I am made of glass
and tiny raindrops,
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?