When people ask me who I am,
because for some reason,
the language of myself is foreign to me.
We could call it a result of bullying, mental illness, or plain teenage mystery.
The cause does not matter.
What matters is that when I look in the mirror, I cannot see one clear thing,
but what I can see
The words don’t come simply, if at all,
and when I try to speak them to others I make myself seem so small.
Here I am,
ready to confront my fear,
and tell you everything of my being,
everything that I have needed to hear.
I am stand when my legs are broken, say the words left unspoken, fearless.
I am put on a black dress, denim jacket, act like nothing happened, flawless.
I am scream into the empty darkness, make this a lovely melody, honest.
I am calloused fingers and cracking wrists, already too full of demons to possess.
I am wilting hearts and broken door frames, knowing shaking doesn’t negate progress.
I am read into the early hours of the morning, speak in rhyming whispers to confess.
I am drive directly into the sunlight, eye squeezed shut, blinding passionate.
I am fight the bullet-ridden battles we never seem to be winning, optimistic advocate.
I am hung roses in my room, reminder that I exist as a child of nature’s womb, fortunate.
I am all these things and more;
so many more that my lungs would collapse if I attempted to speak them all.
My voice would give out before I even said half.
I contain multitudes—though I admit I am not Whitman—
but I am an evergreen soul with bright blue eyes and a heart of coal—
working working working—
and I am never done.
I am complexity;
I am me;
I am (incomplete).