I am not an empty-heart; I am not ice-blocked emotions. I am not a clean-break, not shards of rounded safety glass, cubed, wound-proof.
I am not time, I am not burdens. I am not certain
Or worthy. I am not organized; I am not check marks in flawless lists or a docile couple in frozen bliss.
I am not entirely human. I am not a settler, or someone who stays still. I am not full of perfect health and good posture and concerning food I have no iron will.
I am not tame or sane or well-kept; I am not clean blank paper or unwritten stanzas or shyness toward people I have not met.
I am not picture-perfect, I am not cliche, I am not a normal being in any human way. I am not a smart tidy rhyme packed away in a neat little scheme.
I am the words falling away from your minds in the darkest times of your day. I am poetry and panic and disturbance of sleep; I am wild colors and unmade designs run amok to keep their own. I am the child who names herself; I am the wicked wind that flows through and snags your heart from a branch, tearing it off the trees you entrusted it to.
I am the sickness in bones and the exhaustion in eyes, carved in the smiles of everyone alive. This I am also, to my own detriment.
I am full of faith-longing; constellations combust within me, believing for saving and waiting for companions and cleansing of sins. My eyes see nothing and my soul sees the wind.
I am screams inside that claw up from your chest, possessed by searing flame which writhes without rest. I am mental chaos, a shattering smashing shoving build up of quiet and longing.
I am aching hearts that gaze at one another in silent agony, lips full of words that cannot be spoken. I am tattered clothing,
Ripped jeans and sloshing souls full of sodden sparkles, tired but relentless.
I am soul — I am endless.