When people ask me who I am,

I stutter,

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

is breathing—

changing—

living. 

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;

most simply,

 

I am (incomplete).