Who I am seems to be such a common topic,

To write down plainly and with perfect prose

Exactly who and what I am,

To become easily palatable, 

No bitterness, no aftertaste that stings as it goes down.

Folded up, neat and clean, perfectly composed.

I am not folded up, neat and clean, perfectly composed.

I find myself not in rhyme schemes and easy answers,

Not in words that flow off the tongue.

 

Because you see,

I find myself in bruised wrists where so many hands have gripped tighter and tighter,

Until I could feel splinters in my bones,

I find myself in burnt lungs that exist only for the purpose of inhaling fire,

My blood burns in a way that is not romantic, in a way that doesn't make women swoon,

I am not the ocean, or a sailboat on the oh so very perfect waves.

Not a goddamn sky, or the sunlight through trees.

 

I can't describe who I am in the same way

That you can't quite pin down just what speed the rain falls at,

I can only try and tell you where the bruises lie, where the scars don't fade,

Tell you just what kind of material my skin is made of,

If it's rock or if it is made of cigarette paper, thin and frail to the touch of flame,

When I feel hands around my throat I can tell you just how much I lean in,

The exact angle of where my teeth have begun to chip.

 

I am not my bruises, but the blank space between them,

Consistently shrinking in mass, consistently crumbling in on myself.

I'm not a sunny day, 

No.

I'm a fucking hurricane.