I am more than
the pitifully hopeful plans for a
spontaneous summer spaghetti formal fated
for snide eye rolls white broken teacups and awkward.

I am more than
a twelve-dollar pair of pseudo-
sexy black heels only an arched eyebrow
and raw blister shy of front-page runway scandal.

I am more than
throwing up my secret fable
life on an unsuspecting post-it note
doomed to harsh creases and a metal trash can.

I am more than
a favorite flavor of chapstick
bouncing off the banister and rolling
down the staircase with its loose carpeting.

I am more than
putting my embarrassingly
teen emorock songs on repeat and
singing along for sanity and familiarity’s sake.

I am more than
the parenthetical terrorists, the anti-
American ellipses and the hostile apostrophes
that have invaded and infected my country of speech.

I am more than
falling out of pirouettes,
last minute unheard good byes and
fumbling in a hallway by cell phone limelight.

I am more than
childishly burnt pancakes,
obsessively bitten peeling fingernails and
the emptiness of a desktop fading to gray black and white.

I am more than
pale ankles burning blood,
midnight cracked closet doors and
a window thrown open to steal the concrete winter hum.

I am more than
biting on scabbed dry lips,
scuffed North Carolinian Mary Janes and
the sophisticated silence of a pen making love to paper.

I am more than
my OCD apologies and
my kleptomaniacal confessions.

I am more than
the butter yellow street
lamp flickering off on the corner
of the street we found in our childhood dreams.

I am more than
the hesitant brush of
lips against mouth and the
shy smile and the whispered “goodbye.”