I am
a collapsing moment—
the inhale before the truth lands.
The hush in the room
before someone breaks.

I am many a mickle
that made a muckle.
Small choices, tiny sparks,
scattered pieces
stitched into something
intricate.
Clever.
Quietly powerful.

I am willow-soft
and storm-shaped.
Bending
but rooted.
I weep when I need to.
Then I rise—
always differently than before.

I am crow-wise—
watchful, unblinking,
gathering what others drop:
lost things, sharp things, shiny truths.
I speak in symbols
and I speak in spirals.
I don’t walk straight lines
because the answers aren’t there.

I am octopus-minded.
I shift.
I solve.
I wrap myself around the moment
and feel it from all sides.
I live in the in-between—
between what was
and what’s becoming.

I am playful.
Don’t mistake that.
Play is holy to me.
It’s how I fight,
how I heal,
how I transmute.

I am moonlit and moody,
lit from within,
especially when the world turns dark.
Give me wind and mood lighting.
Give me thunder and space to breathe.
Give me dandelions
when no one’s watching.

I am a way finder—
not with maps,
but with language.
I follow kerning like constellations.
I trust the space
between the words
as much as the words themselves.

Thresholds are sacred.
The moment before the yes.
The breath before the no.
The choice that changes everything
but seems so small
you almost miss it.

But I don’t miss much.

I am not a victim.
I have bled.
I have bent.
But I name the storm
and I ride it.

I don’t just survive.
I reshape.
I reclaim.
I write my name in the wind
and dare it to forget me.

I am.
And that
is not an apology.

I am the truth you feel
but can’t explain.
The question you whisper
when no one’s listening.
I am quiet—
until I’m not.
Then I am thunder
with a poet’s tongue.

I am made of mirrors and masks.
I want to be seen—
but not all at once.
Some parts I protect
like holy things.
Some parts I scatter
just to see who notices.

I am love,
laced with warning labels.
I give freely,
but I keep a part of me
tucked away—
because too many people
have called my softness
a weapon
or a weakness.

I am both the ache
and the remedy.
I will hold you in your grief
and still walk away
if you lie.

I speak in stories
because the truth is too sharp raw.
But don’t mistake the wrapping—
the blade is always there.

I want deep.
Always.
Give me your mess, your edge, your quiet panic.
I don’t care how pretty it looks.
I care if it’s real.

I am not easy to hold—
but if you can,
you will never feel more seen.

I am contradiction without apology.
I am fire that won’t beg to be warm.
I am the secret
and the siren.
The open door
and the lock you don’t know how to pick.

I am.
And that’s enough.
Even when it isn’t for them—
it’s enough for me.

My left eye sees the honest things
A puddle, sky, a skipping stone
It watches birds with steady wings
And knows which socks are not my own

It can spot a single tear
It sees the cracks behind a smile
It knows what’s honest, sharp, and clear
It watches quiet all the while

My right eye is full of play
It sees a dragon in a tree
It turns a puddle into a bay
And swears that squirrels drink cups of tea

It just loves to tell tall tales
It sees a boat where there’s a shoe
It sees dancing trees and talking snails
And paints the sky a deeper blue

One eye will whisper, “That is so.”
It points to facts and steady ground
The other shouts, “A UFO!”
Whenever leaves go swirling ’round

Together, though, they share my face
And show a world both strange and true
Where clocks might melt and flowers race
But love still fits in every view

Together they both guide my heart
One by the truth, one by surprise
Between the lines of what’s been said
I see the world with twin-born eyes

Each smile a map, each line a trail,
Etched softly on the skin's embrace.
A journey marked in fine detail,
The story written on your face.

The laugh that danced around the eyes
Still lingers in a softened fold,
A map of moments, lows and highs,
A quiet story, gently told.

Not every crease was born from pain,
Some stem from joy that overflowed.
Expressions that we can't restrain,
Emotions that our hearts bestowed.

So wear these lines with quiet pride,
They are the footprints of your days.
A testament to life applied,
A living poem on your face’s page.

A kite once soared with a wish in its tail,
To catch a great gust and ride on the gale.
But the sky was too still, not a breeze to be found,
So the kite came to rest on the soft, silent ground.

“I’ll fish for the wind!” the kite boldly declared,
With a spool and some string, it felt quite prepared.
It cast out its line to the clouds way up high,
Hoping a breeze might nibble nearby.

It waited with patience, its tail twitching light,
Under the sun and the stars through the night.
It sang windy songs in a fluttery tune,
And baited the hook with a whisper from June.

Then—tug!—went the string, the line gave a wiggle,
The kite gave a cheer and a dance and a jiggle!
Up it went flying with wild windy zest,
A breeze on the line and the sky in its chest!

Now every young kite, with a dream and a reel,
Knows fishing for wind takes patience and zeal.
For sometimes the sky gives a gust as a gift—
To those who stay grounded but still hope to lift.

On a foggy dawn, as the socks were drawn,
The toes prepared for battle.
The pinky declared, with lint in his hair,
“We’ll rattle those phalanges’ cattle!”

Big Toe led the charge with mighty arch,
And Second Toe braced his shield.
They clashed in glee on the knobby sea
Of the wrinkly battlefield.

The bunions bellowed, the corns would cry,
While calluses thickened their skins,
And nails like blades in jagged shades
Clattered with fearsome grins.

Then Little Piggy, with shrill wee-wee,
Let loose a mighty squeal:
“I’ve had enough, your stench is rough-
Our truce, let’s make it real!”

So Big Toe sighed and put down his pride,
And Second Toe did too.
The toes all hugged (though they all still bugged),
As feet so often do.

And thus it went, till the socks were spent,
And shoes enclosed their truce.
No more they’d fight in the stinky night-
They’d save it for when they’re loose.

When it ended, I cried for us,
For the love we built on fragile trust.
The dreams we shared, the moments few,
I wept for all we couldn’t do.

I cried for late-night whispered vows,
For futures lost, for broken now.
For every kiss, for every laugh,
For what we had but couldn’t last.

You cried for you, your own despair,
For burdens that were hard to bear.
Your tears fell down, not for our we,
But for the things you couldn’t see.

Two rivers flowed but never met,
One full of hope, one of regret.