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How To Be

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I don’t know who I am
Or how to be who I want to be.
Because first I need to learn how to be.
I want to be the graceful ballet dancer
Who is defined by the staccato notes that
Are the soundtrack to her ethereal movements.
I want to be the dark soul who
Paints her lips black and sashays down the hall
In her floor-length trench coat
Her cynical tongue lashing out in an attempt of
Natural selection
Survival of the fittest.
I want to be the nostalgic nymph
Whose dresses wrap around the world
And whose brain wraps around communist manifestos
And scientific theories.
I want to be the prodigy, the whiz kid
My languid fingers sweeping across guitar strings
And psychedelic, nonsensical words dancing
Across my lips.
I want to be it all, wrapped up in one sense
The three-dimensional mademoiselle.

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