A friend told me to focus on the me.
The I on the InsIde.
Being comfortable with the wild free spirit that I’m ashamed to admit is often molded to fit others views.
So I adventured alone under this hot dog-day sun.
I wrote and wrote and wrote with almost every other word being personal pronoun.
And I thought I found her..
The voice that governs this spirit
But I was wrong.
I’d only found 5 year old me Russian-dolled inside.
A little girl still so afraid and never herself a girl molded to fit the demands of her roller-coaster life..
So I thought there was no.
No I InsIde the I
No personal pronoun that was the root word of my semi dactylic kiltered speech
I thought my whole life I’d been some ragdoll stuffed with the stuffings of other people.
My stomach pauncehd out with their wallowed dreams and rules and jokes.
But then I remember a night in a dead stop Idaho winter.
Where at 2 in the morning I’d risen from my bed and stood with front door open breathing in the cold.
That was me.
The real me.
The me that revels in a snow storm.
The ne who is a picky eater.
The me who can’t write a song
The me who thinks quotes in her mind not to impress people but to express herself
And I realized I’d just barely found her.
Just got my fingers wrapped around that skinny ankle before I moved back here.
Back to the terrarium of familial obligation.
Scientist of a family peering in to see I’d changed.
And that girl she took off running free and I was back to being 5 year old me.
Quick to anger, quick to cry
In desperate need of attention.
So soon I’m going to chase down that girl
Running barefoot across concrete like I love to do.
I’m going to chaste that girl down
Over hill and heath over country and sea
Wherever I must go so I can ally know.
Know who I really am.
My feet maybe stuck for now
But I’m wiggling my toes
Hoping to break through
And follow the pay my free spirit chose