I Am (Not) What I Own

I am

the heart of two women.

weak, 

sensitive, 

lacking the right influence.

heart before head, 

dramatic, and feminine. 

I am

bright, holographic stickers.

slapped onto things I own.

childish, prodigal, embarrassing. 

ruining objects, with sticky waste.

I am

bloodied bitten nails. 

calloused mess, torn cuticles, 

a bandaid to disguise,

the visible insecurity, 

an anxious girl.

but I really am

a painfully sentimental hoarder. 

covered in trinkets, 

gifted, 

by people I’d do anything for. 

bracelets from Mexico, Florida, the local CVS.

littered throughout my arm, 

like a sash of honor.

a writer. 

filling up pages of dreams

of memories,

of secrets.

personalizing paper, cover to cover, constantly. 

obsessively updating,

as if gossiping to an old friend. 

I am a million colors at once.

pink fuzzy socks, 

funky sweaters your grandma owns, 

glittery makeup, 

paint, 

tie-dyed white shirts.

an array of light, 

seeping into my soul.

Effervescent.