I am what I am.
I am plaid flannel shirts
tied at the waist, ripped jeans,
boots, and a made up face––a facade––
wind-weathered and weary, I’m a girl,
not a god.
I am a feminist,
an activist, a liberal, and
a socialist,
at least according to my father,
   whose conservative elephant’s trunk
swings through the air and brushes my
opinions to the side, where they belong,

    I. Am.

   watery coffee. bitter. bland.

I am a minnow fleeing from predators, hiding behind coral reefs of colorful “i love yous” and “i’m sorrys” i am a baker, but not the traditional kind

I am the size of my chest.
I am the thickness of my thighs.

I am red lips sealed tight and
salt water(color)
on my sleeves, I am winged eyeliner and too much pink blush,
I am makeup smudged across my hands and nose i am
my mother’s insults, hurled at me from her
cage
anger/“frustration”
i am what i am

i am a volcano of constant butter
flies in my stomach. waiting

to erupt into nervous break
downs
for millennia
i am a perfectlybrewed americana––iced
half bitter black coffee & half
anxiety.

I am a caffeine addict
  (preferably in the form of a dr pepper)

I am never found on a keychain, nor
a miniature license plate
no street signs or oversizedpriced coffee mugs

I am misspelled, mispronounced ,
misheard but that does not mean that i am ever
just
Missed.
  
   I am a f***up.
  I am (f***ing crazy, just like my mother) NOT MY MOTHER.
never

i am a charmer, a killer, a lover,
i am skipped meals and sharp pangs of hunger

i am dizzy
       tired
       stressed
       a sharp tongue

i’m always a little bit sad.

i am hundreds of crumpled up/ripped up/lit up failures
searching for
         a fix
    i am hurtling into the void.

i am a bee killer

i am what i am