I am my father’s daughter.

I am the words that I never seem to say aloud, but instead choose to write down.

I am the people who encircle me- ones that have made the circle through all my time and others who recently added on to the circumference.

I am broken and at times lost, but continuously loved and inevitably saved. I am my four sisters, always connected by our genes (and our jeans- which we forget to ask to borrow most of the time).

I am every song I delicately hum and every one I passionately belt.

I am a coffer for the words of E.E. Cummings, Oscar Wilde, and Emily Dickinson.

I am the worry that burns holes in my heart for people in this world who are not spoken for, those who are too frail to ever speak for themselves.

I am the paradox of not knowing what it is exactly I want but knowing exactly what I don’t want. I am the embodiment of an entire 17 years, 1 month, and 10 days’ worth of life.

But I am completely unfinished

- a work in progress.

I am all that has not been revealed to me yet, all that is ambiguous. I am more.

The “more” contains some things I do know,

but then the things I don’t know.

Those,

well,

we'll just have to wait and see.