what i'm not

I am not this poem.

I am not college ruled,

200 sheets,

crumpled and thrown on your office floor

when you get frustrated.

 

When you get inspired,

it isn’t because I’m

brave and bold,

wild and willing

to back up

your bullshit and

overused metaphors.

I am not 6AM and sunny,

2 cups of coffee,

writing prompts,

experience,

degrees,

retreats,

homes overlooking a river,

studios.

I am not yet your poem.

 

I am

brownstone and red velvet,

a 9-5,

7 is the end when I am lazy,

overgrown, freewheeling honeysuckle in a

backyard I don’t own.

I am reading your blog,

I am making lists,

I am on ebay

searching for high-waisted jeans.

I am buying five

books at a time, skimming two.

I am two dogs, two cats, two women.

 

Sometimes I don’t know what

lives inside

or even who

is downstairs.

I haven’t felt my face in days,

I haven’t seen my

belly,

don’t remember my thighs

if not for walking.

I can’t be your poem