I was never one for perfection.
The swoops of my penmanship never had to
lay in synchronicity.
They were made to give a point, and that
point solely.
I never relied on connotations or riddles
hidden between the lines.

I am not a dreamer.
I don’t crave anything, anyone, more than I
have, for I am a fulfilled spirit and a fulfilled
spirit only.
I don’t dabble in the unthinkable, the “what
if”s.
I don’t strive to unlock some version of myself
people might like more.

I never swallow my humor to become more
digestible.
I live how I was born, and I’ll die being her,
too.
I don’t want more texts in the morning or calls
at dusk.
I’m forever content in my second choice
position.

I’m beloved by my beloved, so who could ask
for anything more?
My friendships stay cherished until I let go, for
it is always my hands that drop the rope first.
I’m never, not ever, left in the dust of my best
friend’s best friends.
I live the life of the remembered, not the
rememberer.

I’ve never been a poet, I’m always the poem.
I’m always the first name that comes to mind
when a story is born.
I’m not a writer, I’m not a wisher, I don’t pray
on every shooting star.
I don’t need to beat some prophecy, no, my
story is one I agree with.

I’m proud of each misstep I tremble through.
I let them leave my mind, like a leaf through
my truthful stream.
I forgive and forget, I never live through my
long-held grudges.
When I declare it “fine,” I treat it as such, I
never breathe through the mask of broken
promises.

I evict those who have struck my spine from
my body.
I take their blades from my back and let them
burn the evidence.
Who needs scars when you thrive as a
forgetter?
The crumbled up notepads and quick
schemed threats stay stashed away in the
garbage, where they so greatly belong.

I am not a dreamer.
I am not a wanter.
I am not a rememberer.
I am one who accepts who she is, one who
allows the flow of forgiveness.

Except, perchance, that none of these things
are the truth.
Not one phrase of my soft-sung poem falls
from the streams of verity.
Perhaps they exist in some other form of me,
some other universe in which I feel as if I
belong.
But until then, I’ll scribble down the opposites
until they morph into something half-true.