Who am I really?
I am not a metaphor
nor the killing thing between your teeth
I am not your sadness made flesh
and I am not sorry
for I am only what I am.
I am not a damn metaphor
yet no one in my family ever says the word "damn"
and I've read Dickenson long enough to convince myself
that I could become a poem
and the fragments still take copper in my mouth.
I am not a metaphor.
When I am a hurricane
I am a hurricane and I rage.
When I am a street lamp
I am the street lamp lit up outside your window.
When I am a mirror
I am the mirror reflecting your face back at you.
And I cannot continously become what I wish for
but I will not be anything I don't have faith in.