I on the InsIde

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