You’re not the animal you think you are. You’re only half
of his chromosomes and the other half is just
cotton swabs, mismatched socks and
Saturday morning cartoons. Take off your skin. See how
you glow under all that clay.
Stop thinking about how it’s molding you. The drapes in your grandmother’s living room do more to shape who you are
than your skin.
Don’t let it bury you.
Take it off and you’ll see
the little bird in an oil spill underneath.
Your feathers are inky black and sticky but the blues of your eyes
have never been brighter. Rinse off their mistakes and fly.
You’re not the shrub you think you are. Your mom’s landscaper didn’t arrange your flowers; her aborist never touched your branches.
All that dirt is hiding the worms inside you
producing only the best. You help everything around you grow.
You really are a miracle and
you have only you
You’re a starfruit, a rare golden shape in the midst of the shapeless.
Of the statues. Grab your hammer and break free.
Don’t let them bury you. Fly