I, who was born with two eyes
I, who have loved and hated my eyes, wishing I could pluck them from my head
I, who was born with one mouth
I, who have silenced myself, wishing to scream and yet never speak again.
I, who was born with 2 ears
I, who was lulled to sleep by your voice, the same voice that soon sounded like sweet poison
I, who was born with 2 legs
I, who wished I were born with neither leg, to be able to say “I have no way to leave”.
I, who was born with 2 arms
I, who opened them wide to hold you close, wrapping them around my ribs.
I, who was born with 2 hands
I, who held them out, small and fragile, who pulled them back scarred and burned
I, who was born with one beating heart
I, who learned to sew it closed and pull the stitches back open again
I have been 11 and 13 and 15 and soon, 17
I, who have been so many people and yet, no one memorable
I, who have been a writer and an illiterate
I, who have been a sentimental and stone-cold
I, who have loved and hated my eyes, wishing I could pluck them from my head
I, who was born with one mouth
I, who have silenced myself, wishing to scream and yet never speak again.
I, who was born with 2 ears
I, who was lulled to sleep by your voice, the same voice that soon sounded like sweet poison
I, who was born with 2 legs
I, who wished I were born with neither leg, to be able to say “I have no way to leave”.
I, who was born with 2 arms
I, who opened them wide to hold you close, wrapping them around my ribs.
I, who was born with 2 hands
I, who held them out, small and fragile, who pulled them back scarred and burned
I, who was born with one beating heart
I, who learned to sew it closed and pull the stitches back open again
I have been 11 and 13 and 15 and soon, 17
I, who have been so many people and yet, no one memorable
I, who have been a writer and an illiterate
I, who have been a sentimental and stone-cold
I, who am a lovergirl and unloved
I, who am the summer sun and the winter night
I, who am the soft spring breeze and the eye of the storm
I am in all that I am
I, who am the April showers of my early birthdays and the blizzards of December on Christmas morning
I, who have been told time and time again who I am, but never understood to the bone
I, who am the summer sun and the winter night
I, who am the soft spring breeze and the eye of the storm
I am in all that I am
I, who am the April showers of my early birthdays and the blizzards of December on Christmas morning
I, who have been told time and time again who I am, but never understood to the bone
I really am a poet
In every step I take and every thought I conjure
It runs all through me like the oxygen filling my lungs and keeping me alive
Sometimes it fills me to the brim, and the oxygen turns to water, drowning me
I, who write, and write, and write, and it is never enough
I, who will never say all I need to say
The words do not exist to explain how I feel,
The ink in my pen not heavy enough
So I write with the blood in my veins, but still it turns empty on the page
In every step I take and every thought I conjure
It runs all through me like the oxygen filling my lungs and keeping me alive
Sometimes it fills me to the brim, and the oxygen turns to water, drowning me
I, who write, and write, and write, and it is never enough
I, who will never say all I need to say
The words do not exist to explain how I feel,
The ink in my pen not heavy enough
So I write with the blood in my veins, but still it turns empty on the page
I am in all that I am
Unfulfilled with no space to fit anything more inside.
I, am who I was, who I am, and who I will be
I am all
I am none
But I am.
Unfulfilled with no space to fit anything more inside.
I, am who I was, who I am, and who I will be
I am all
I am none
But I am.
