i'm good at what i do, she said.

and what is that? came the curious reply.

her eyes drift off,

picking words out of her memories

to describe what exactly it is

that she does.

a few stick out,

descriptors she's turned to

leaned on

become

over the years.

what do i do?

multitask. waste time. daydream.

i don't know.

i don't define it.

i just am.

i exist.

i do.

i don't know what i do.

i just

do.

her words, perhaps, are slightly

deeper, more profound,

than she had intended,

but upon reading them over

and trying them out on her tongue

she cannot think of any way

they could match her

mean her

be her

more perfectly.