Vision+Voice

Metamorphosis.

Do you really know
how it works?
First,
if it’s lucky, the caterpillar spins itself stuck in silk.
If it’s not, when it come time to grow
it’s trapped inside its own skin.

And then.

It doesn’t blossom into antenna and wings,
doesn’t slowly, softly, shift,
from one thing to another.

Then it l i q u i f i e s.

An enzyme called caspase
tears through tissue,
breaks old and familiar bonds,
until everything that it is,

isn’t.

And from here,
its cells must betray it again,
dragging themselves atom by atom,
(furtively, painfully)
into the shape of a stranger.

Please note
that during this time,
a butterfly is extremely vulnerable
to outside influences.
It has never been more unsure,
and could ooze right out and die.

And if it finally finishes forming,
(it never will)
it must find the strength to break free,
and stand shaking beneath the shattered sky.
It can’t just fly.
It needs time to process

what it has involuntarily become.

Maybe it never wanted this,
to be something more.
Something pretty.
(And isn’t it so lucky if it is)
Maybe it just wants to be

what it was.
(Is)

I used to be alone but now I have a sister
I used to have a fish but now I have a dog
I used to have two uncles but now I have two uncles and an aunt
I used to not have a care in the world about death but now it haunt my head every day
I used to have a friend and now I have a best friend
I used to not worry about habits but now Im yelled about it everyday
I used to have a friend but now Im not so sure
I used to have just met a person but now they’re my best friend
I used to be five but now Im twelve
I used to be in Mills now I am at Gorzycki
My grades used to not matter but now I check the everyday

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.

I’m from dog hair covered carpets
from tv dinners and tinny pringle cans.
I am from a not very big house
with a overcrowded garage
and a closet full of craft supplies.
I am from the tiny little lemon tree
who gave us many sour lemons.
I am from the many squashmallows and buckets of legos,
from mckenzie and youngblood.
I am from sarcasm and yelling
and hazel eyes.
From chicken pot pie and spicy tamales
and from my pink bear i loved so much.
I am from those moments that made me, me.

Soccer players
Warm up
No hands
Fans in the stands
Work hard
Foul hard
Red card
Yellow card
Goal
Goal
Goal

I poured my coffee
And sat
At the table
Kicking my feet
That dangle off the chair
Waiting for the sun
To peak above the horizon
And begin the day
Listening to the tick
Of the grandfather clock
And sat
And kicked my feet
Watching the steam from my coffee
Stop dancing towards to the ceiling
And listening
To the absence of bird calls
Waiting
As my coffee
Grew cold

I love my computer. I’d play on it now not later. I like to play games. That are not lame. When I was the age seven. I didn’t have my Windows eleven. I can’t wait. To do something else than fish with bait.

We went to the pet store one day
and when I saw her I didn’t know what to say.
We couldn’t help that she was oh-so cute.
We knew what we had to do.
We told the employee to get the paper.
It was either now or later.
My mom signed it so fast, made it slammy.
I said, “I think I’ll name my hamster Hammy.”

A silken darkness sneaking through the town
A tiny, feral scout from shadows thin
A tiny face with ears as sharp as crowns
A crossing of a path that leaves you grim

Will thou ever emerge from past the light
In alleys where you live in dark and cold
A lost pet that has never been shown right
Who’s been left just too broke to trust the gold?

A spy with eyes that pierce through darkest night
And watches the moon stand too far to play
And ev’ry day must be ready to fight
Simply because they see you as a stray

But I see you in an untinted light
No hate because you have unkindly kin
I know that your heart isn’t dark as night
My shady, silken scout from shadows thin

And thus, as we watch each night and day end,
I only hope that you can be my friend.

You can make things that are light
Or very bright,
That the stitches will hold very tight
Even in the dark of the night

In and out the needle sews
In elegant rows
To make clothes,
That you can wear from head to toes

There is an endless list of things you can do,
You can mend something to make it look new
If you love what is made, you can always make two
Sewing is fun, even for you!