Where am I?
Am I a stitch engrained
In a the lace of the fighter’s glove?
Or can am I the vibrant color
That wets the soft bristles of a paint brush?
Maybe it’s sweet glint of a child’s eye that holds me within.
Am I the breath of wind
Or the rustle of trees,
Or is my sound that of the television’s glare?
Do I find myself in laughter
And lose myself in every tear?
Does my anger define me,
And my rage describe me?
Or is it my boundaries who tell declare who I am?
When I cry, does the sound echo endlessly
Into the velvet black of the night
Reminding the World of my presence,
Or is it laughter that the world listens to?
What do my footsteps say,
When the hard bottoms of my sneakers
Pound against the impenetrable concrete floor as I run,
The rhythmic noise declaring a soft
Chidicka, chidicka, chidicka,
What’s the secret they whisper?
What if my grandmother tells me I’m beautiful,
But the mirror doesn’t?
Who am I to believe?
What about the bright t-shirts,
Patterned shoes, tattered jeans, and neon flip flops
The cloth bracelets and necklaces
Do they have a say?
Was I meant to sing on a stage under the glitter of a spotlight?
Or is the ache within me that of something else?
How about the sunglasses which block my eyes,
And protect me from the glare of the sun and the people
As I spend countless hours
Observing the people walking by?
Is it a different me which peers behind them,
Or is it simply Me,
With a different façade?
Who has the right to name me?
Writer, singer, artist, actor, fighter
Girl, Boy?
Does the beautiful girl at the top of the stairs
The one with the Hershey brown eyes and the thin hourglass figure
The one glows with the light of the stars
Does she know herself?
Can my mom decide if I fit right in those jeans
Fat or skinny?
Or is it me
That finds Me?