If you really knew me

you would know that

I look at people the way you read a book.

If you really knew me

you'd see the way I tense up when

someone is about to read my name for the first time.

If you listen closely, you'd hear

muffled cries whispering into the abyss

 

Who am I?

 

What am I?

 

Why am I here?

 

I am not a noun. 

I am the way that my paintbrush moves over canvas

Sometimes paintbrushes are sharp.

Sometimes canvases have veins.

I am not the saying, "Be realistic. Art will get you nowhere."

Here's how to kill someone with two words: "Be realistic."

I am the thoughts I have at 11:11 wishing that my mother understood me

I am not the way she looks at me when I tell her what I want to be when I grow up

or better yet

Mother, I don't want to be close-minded

Mother, I don't want to be forty and in debt

Mother, I don't want to be chasing a dream that isn't mine

Mother, becoming a doctor was always your dream

Mother, I am not you

I write,

I sing,

I dance,

I breathe.

I am not grades, tests, papers with gold medals attached.

I am not the slant of my eyes or

the bowl of rice I had for dinner last night

My language does not consist of "ching" or "chong" or

any other variation of harsh clashing consonants.

My blood contains the sweat of my ancestors who crossed the seas so

they could sleep at night without

one eye open, without thinking about the uncles and fathers who

lost limbs or lives in the war.

I am who I decide to be.

I am a constellation made of stars that

contain the elements of who I want to be.

I am what I think.

"I think, therefore I am."