Who am I really? 

I am not a metaphor 

nor the killing thing between your teeth

I am not your sadness made flesh 

and I am not sorry

for I am only what I am.

I am not a damn metaphor 

yet no one in my family ever says the word "damn" 

and I've read Dickenson long enough to convince myself

that I could become a poem

and the fragments still take copper in my mouth.

I am not a metaphor.

When I am a hurricane

I am a hurricane and I rage. 

When I am a street lamp

I am the street lamp lit up outside your window. 

When I am a mirror

I am the mirror reflecting your face back at you. 

And I cannot continously become what I wish for

but I will not be anything I don't have faith in.