I want to say what it is or what it isn’t,
simple uncut truths,
striking against a smattering of whitewash metaphors.
This is
I am
Here is my life,
an unripe tomato, a tree, a conversation, hot breath on a cold night, a pencil, lead
My brain a lumpy gray mass of nerve endings and cells and imbalanced chemicals
A heart of asymmetrical blood vessels beating in time to a rhythm that means only that I am not dead or dying
enclosed inside a body that I sometimes like
and sometimes don’t
Here I am
a smog, a computer, a coffee cup, stacks of unused notebooks, entwined fingers
There’s nothing left to say
Say anything
Here it is.
