You may strip me to the bone and examine my every part
Go ahead and remove my soul
While I pray to GOD that I will let go
Of all my insecurities
And my bad qualities
And a broken back that will not stop me.
Though depression is gone anxiety still looms when I’m all alone
In case you were even wondering.
I admit that I’m still stuck in a fantasy of
Disney princesses and fictional readings and
I just want to be loved but
I’ve never been kissed and I’ve never kissed.
And then there is
My religion—the greatest part of me—
That presses perfection while I remove it from myself.
I know that God is okay with all my effort and
--You wouldn’t believe how much I love Him—
Has used His sacrifice to cover my faults and save me.
So I am not my faults.
And I am not my problems
And I am not the years of balancing on a cliff regretting the distance too afraid to jump and yet
Too afraid to stay.
I am the beauty I have grown into,
With curly hair,
A rockin’ body,
And movement that would make anyone feel the something that I’ve been trying to feel for years.
I am constant motion and a brilliant heart filled with the passion of loving dance and helping people.
I am the daughter of a divine being.
I don’t regret turning religious on you:
All “Jesus Christ” and “I am saved,”
Because you asked to research my bones and remove my soul and there it is in all its glory.
If I avoided it, I would be lying and you would know
Because it is the truth intricately carved into the structural part of me
That you are oh-so-carefully examining.
But I am even more than religion and beauty.
Though most of me is always dancing,
I also spend the day hallucinating based on the black ink that I find on a dead tree
And pouring over assigned readings while I study the lives of people very unlike me
And taking on new personalities and knowing each one intimately.
I have written this poem over and over and over and over again
Trapping myself within the lines of a page
In the feeling of a stage
And wrapping myself up in the grime and the bodies of a dance floor.
I am also made up of so many dreams:
One million impossible goals.
There is a woman who is knee deep in the mess of others’ poverty
Merely attempting to help them out.
With all her success and all her failures
She, I know, is me.
At least eventually.
In the end,
When I have built myself into these goals
While Christ fills my holes,
I will still be made up of excitement and hyper bottled up into a mess of words
Falling out of my mouth before I can think.
But for now they’re falling onto this page,
And I will soon carve them into my soul where they will stay and say:
“This is only the beginning.”