The Person Inside Me
—she sits alone, never
reaches out to the people
around her—she would
rather suffer than speak up
—she never throws anything away
(she keeps treasures in her room,
and her coat pockets are always full of rocks)
—she grows tired with herself.
she throws out the papers,
the faded receipts
—she learns to live life
from her own mind. she packs
it inside her suitcase and
falls asleep to the church
bells outside her window
—she falls in love with the world.
it is hers, she learns
—she likes to put flowers
on the windowsill, like
the stained glass she’s seen,
the mosaics in long abbey halls
filled with marble and silk and
the graves of old poets and monarchs
—she leaves her world,
the one she’s known for years,
to visit the sea. it is
where she becomes whole
—she does not wait
for her future to come.
it is already here. and it
is hers for the taking.