I am...

I am

a dreamer, a child of chigger weed and lightning bugs, collecting rocks of little and extreme importance, running from bees and wasps and things that sting.

   a daughter and a sister, living in a small, white house by the railroad tracks

   whistles and lights and letters from a times and a train long gone, swaying with the wind in the chipped porch swing, listening to cicadas sing.

   a student, trading green grass for shag carpet, a stick in the dirt turned pencil on page.

I am

   rainy mornings and clear summer nights, fluid, a vague in between of seasons, barren trees reaching toward the vast expanse of sky.

   the lavender tree just off the front porch, the rose bush just beneath the window.

   hoarded journals and broken pens, pencils that scratch as I tattoo my thoughts onto thin canvas

   fleeting ideas and forgotten songs

   an Altoids box, filled with things only I remember, a necklace, two bracelets, three hair clips and a carefully folded hall pass.

   a dusty jewelry box, filled with photos and letters and rock of importance, the music box I cleaned and tuned and showed off good as new.

   the old pine dresser with drawers that never close, clothes that litter the floor, a cheap vintage mirror covered in colored tissue paper flowers.

   balls of yarn and crochet hooks tucked under the rocking chair, a viola caked in white rosin, a black and white bass shy of the amp.

I am

   eyeliner bold and black, happily pale with summer freckles

   big brown eyes that belong to my mom and aunts, an oval face and bent fingers from my dad and grandpa.

   red hair from God knows where, red cheeks and hands when my drink is too hot, blue lips and fingertips when the air gets too cold.

   mysterious cuts and bruises that come and go as they please, chipped nail polish with glitter touch-ups

   the brown jacket, covered in dog hair, shoes that refuse to stay tied.

   apparently old enough to layout my future, too young to understand how

I am

   wingin’ it, and hoping I fly.