I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
My name is brynn and I am
a messy, noisy compilation.
There used to be a little girl on the playground who would believe anything you told her
even if it was a blatant lie.
and she had warped the black plastic barrier between the mulch and the earth from
orbiting the play structure
feet and thoughts looping.
I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
I’ve seen too many bodies that carry
these jumbled, messy thoughts.
There used to be a girl who looked quizzically into the mirror because amidst the torrents of change
she kept being surprised by her face.
And, though she tried to learn, she never carried the as-advertised familiarity
with the back of her hand.
Too many knuckles and dots and colors.
I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
In a single choir room there have been
So many selves to know inside and out.
Even I cannot keep track: eleven in a pink dress and a balloon of emotions that tore open
with assigned lunchroom seats.
Twelve and scared of the air, thirteen and questioning everything, fifteen and forgetting half of who I was,
knowing the room sees
all of me at once.
I don’t think anyone is ever
just one person.
My room is still painted with
cotton ball clouds and rolling hills
and there are paper bees hanging from the ceiling of my closet and picture books on my shelves.
under years of notebooks.
And I have been told more than once that that room needs a redoing, but oh am I bad
at letting go of all of myself
to be just one person.