It wasn’t until I

could feel the wind

kissing my hand,

arm hanging out of

your old rusty van

that I realized that

I have a purpose

even if that purpose is purely

letting other people know

that sometimes

I.

If we could be quiet in the small spaces,

maybe they would make excuses for us.

Our bodies, forgiven only once in a while.

We look in the mirror, see dualities of ourselves

and ask them to break. I like the glass between us.

i have my father’s temper, my father’s eyes.

i keep my bloody birthrights in a clear glass jar.

all the things i’ve laid claim to with my mother’s fingers;

long, pale, five on each hand, like real people have.

I will liken the heavy clouds that pass over my land to grey matter

              before my body remembers the practicality of pain