Ceci n’est pas un poème.

This is nothing ornate or eloquent.

This is the dirt under my fingernails.

This is the way I look when I take off my makeup.

This is thinking of my grandmother in the thrift store and wanting to cry.

These are the things I never do because I get distracted on the way.

These are the unintentional judgments I pass when I see someone for the first time.

This is the number zero.

This is how I see without my glasses.

This is my brain going faster than my mouth or my fingers.

This is arguing with myself about things that probably don’t even matter.

This is not an art.

These are beautiful scars.

This is not trying to be trendy or ironic.

These are the thoughts that inhaled the gas from the oven or went for a swim with stone-filled coat pockets.

This is losing my baby teeth.

This is knowing I can’t see everything that’s out there and being okay with that.

This is my mother’s heart when she sang me to sleep all those nights.

This is no secret ingredient.

These are unidentified bodies.

These are time capsules that will one day be lost and forgotten.

This is being equally comfortable with life and death.

This is a child hugging their daddy goodbye at the airport.

This is a collection of rocks and feathers. 

This is being unable to roll over in bed because I don’t want to wake them up.

These are fading photographs and dried up glue.

This is a tacky gift that came from a genuine heart.

This is a beautiful woman with a unibrow and flowers in her hair.

This is doing things I hate for people I love.

This is siblings bickering.

These are clumsy words and skinned knees.

This is listening to my grandfather’s lungs gurgle in the hospital room.

This is the view of the ocean from the top of the jungle gym.  

These are the seldom times when the numbing fog recedes.

This is loving myself even when I’m not quite sure who I am.

This is chiaroscuro.

This is a headstone for a living person.

This is rust and stardust.