I am not my body (poem)
I am not my body. I am not my ideas.
I am not my jokes. I am not my bookshelf.
I am not my name. I am not my skin.
I am not my schedule. I am not my CV.
I am not my education. I am not my vocabulary.
I am not my travels. I am not my bank account.
I am not my childhood. I am not my hometown.
I am not my nationality. I am not my fears.
I am the notes scribbled by a stranger
in the margins of a used book.
I am the pinnacle of the sunset, the most
vibrant moment you'll miss if you look away.
I am the sound of my heartbeat in my head.
I am one small leaf on a tree, fluttering.
I am paint squeezed from a tube.
I can't be undone. I can't go
back where I've come from.
I can only expand.
I am the
cell wall tango, the powerhouse.
I am the jester of the castle in
my dreams.
I am the lump in your throat,
the chill at the back of your neck.
I am a spider, terrifying and crafty,
spinning my own web, not bothering anyone.
I am the web itself, dazzled with dew.
I glitter in the sunlight
I'm invisible at certain angles
I tremble when you touch me.