Perfectly Imperfect Dancer

Hair spray fumes plume
in the air, collecting in my lungs
in my hair
pulled tight
As I chance a glance
one last time in the glass

Lengths of ribbon encircle
ankles strengthened across years,
and streams of sweat,
rivulets
across my back,
along my face,
salting the air

And I turn and then learn, and I turn yet again
yearning to glide on the soft satin box
around and around and around
And I achieve a third
but it’s not enough
so I go again and again
One more time, one more uncertain glide
As my body flips, a playing card with sharp motion
and I slow and roll down
One more time, one more time, but it’s never just once more
I won’t stop
until it is perfect.

An Apt Metaphor For This

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…

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

Versions

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.

Were I’m From

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.

my coffee

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

Hammy the Hamster

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.”