Let me tell you a
secret.
Let me show you
who I am.
Let me open my drawers
and fish out my notebook,
The notebook
I write in,
Draw in,
Sometimes silently
smile into.
Let me unzip my
exterior and
remove my shadowy mask,
For that is not who I am.

I am not a hardened shell,
I am not a shadowy face.
I am every color of our unexplored
universe,
I am a shape-shifting soul,
exploding like red fireworks into
a velvet black sky,
I am the glowing embers of a
dying fire,
warm and humming.
I am the iridescent wings
of a tiny hummingbird,
I am a red sunrise, bursting over the mountains
like ripe grapes in a sticky hand.
I am a book on a shelf.
I am dusty and faded, my spine
stained with ink and
my pages
filled with thought.

Let me show you that I am all these things,
And please,
let me tell you
that
honestly,
the secret is,
you are,
too.

Heaps of ashes that used to resemble a house dance in the wind,
Up and down, side to side and tumbling through the air like a
circus acrobat in a grey costume.
If I squint, they could be butterflies.

Neglected dust huddles quietly in the corners that are never reached by the broom.
Pots and pans lined in greasy film and crusted tomato sauce
fill the sink like waterlogged sandcastles on a humid beach.
If you look away quickly, you could pretend it was an art project.

Boxes stacked on boxes line the hallways, washed in buttery morning light.
Up and down the staircases, through the hallways, bumping into one another,
hearts fluttering like hummingbirds, we ran.
If you thought hard enough, you can remember how happy we were
that first day
in our very new house.