Identity

Identity,

The condition of being oneself, of or relating to being one and not another.

The fact of being who or what you are.

Identity,

More perplexing than it seems.

And yes, I think things like the dictionary are poetic, this mechanical reasoning

describing the foundation of spoken language how can you not be taken by its beauty.

My identity is a shifting sand, each individual grain connecting like pieces to

different puzzles and sometimes I don't know what it looks like.

There's no picture on the box or step by step tutorials,

sometimes it feels like I have too many blank pieces,

sometimes it feels like the pieces I have don't fit together.

Like I'm an extrovert, but extremely introverted, I don't know how to ask for things

like money, dates, and help. I'm not afraid of the dark, but I dream about

the things which lurk in my closet.

And I love people, I love them because each one dances with their identity

constantly struggling with the fact of their differences wishing that their brain

could just say potato, rather than pot-ato.

It's easy to forget that you're different, that the knife arrangement in the kitchen

doesn't ruin your day, or that singing Sinatra in the shower is why you decide to

be ok,

I know, I know that identity isn't supposed to be perfect, like when you say hate

when you meant love, or how you're tired of being a kid when you never want to grow up,

but the thing we have to learn is that it's okay to know orange sunrises are the

reason why you get up in the morning, that blue eyes make your heartbeat a little

faster, and personalities were designed to be a disaster.

I'm disorganized, in my mind I get rid of the dis and come to a perfect balance of chaos.

I constantly chase organization to find a bigger mess, one which I created so I

could find what I was looking for in the first place.

When I was a kid I used to get scared, the only natural response was to hide,

and now it seems as if the only corners to run to are those which I conjure in my mind,

so I live in my stories, like the time in kindergarten when I dressed up as a knight

because I thought it would make me brave, or that reminiscing about old sleepovers

hides the words, your grandfather is dying.

The most interesting thing about myself is the way I love people.

I try to hurt them to see how much they really care, and I get upset with them

because I expect more than they can bare, I attribute this to the higher expectations

I never reach for myself.

I live in a paradoxical state with my parents because I hate the way I love them.

The way they barge into my room after hearing slammed doors, thrown shoes,

and J Cole. The fact that they still give me back rubs and as much as I say I hate it, I

never tell them to stop, I never want them to stop.

So tomorrow I'm gonna make my bed,

I'm gonna leave the covers spilling over like rain falling off the rooftops,

and you'll find me dancing, you'll find me singing in the rain. Umbrella and all.

But if I can never speak for myself then how can I think for myself,

and if I can't think for myself then I can't be myself, and if I can never be myself,

I will never know me, and if I never know myself,

How will you?