i was myself, once.
like i’ve been before;
a phoenix, fire of
autumn leaves regurgitates
me.
i find my voice in the songs
the river sings,
memory like the currents.
constantly moulting, but
keeping them in a scrapbook–
moments with blank spaces
in between
stitched together to make
a quilt.
i decompose.
sometimes i bloom with the azaleas
in the spring.
i am i am i am
nothing
yet absolutely everything.
i am my decomposing
grandmother, six feet under Michigan soil.
i am being rejected from thirteen jobs before
falling in love with the one i have.
i am the insecurity and self-hatred
i have shed like a snakeskin,
insatiable wanderlust, and
falling asleep early on a Friday night–
trying to write poetry with invisible ink
on the apartment walls in hopes that the next person
who runs their fingers on them will carry
a small piece of me with them.
i am both my aunts and my mother,
so much history for a soul
that feels much too small for its body.
i am struggling with existence these days
unsure if it’s a game or
a dream, or something in between.
Silenticel 