I am the memories hidden from my consciousness
for better of for worst
like the mess inside my room
that helps me organize myself.
Four years ago that mess wasn't there.
And four years ago I used to sing in the shower
with the same voice as my mother
when she sung me lullabies, while tucking me in to sleep.
And later on she'd pray to a god I can't see,
the same god I used to beg at when I was fifteen
and yell at-- and scream at--
and love as much as I hated myself.

I am the words I've been told,
the prophecies,
the gold in my ears,
and the astrology sign that stays the same
year by year,
even though I change
like my favorite colors: pink, red and beige.
But I'm not too sure because those colors are pretty lame,
if you ask twelve year old me,
the one that thought boys were a necessity
as fundamental as air--
but, no; I also like girls.  
And when my counsellor asked me why,
I couldn't really say;
I'm not sure I want to tell him I've been thinking of *** since I was eight,
or how long it took me to be okay
with the fact that I'm not actually straight,
even though Mom thinks it's a shame.  

Mom, I'm still the same, even though I'm not;
I am still the string of cells that was once bundled up inside you like a knot.
I still wrap myself around you in a hug
hoping you will understand that my love transcends the heavens above
and the destination of the lost
that some people call hell.
I don't care
and I don't think I ever will
because the past stays still
while the future stares;
no matter what, I will continue being myself,
even if I don't understand my nature.

I am more than what I seem:
I am the dreams produced in deep sleep
by my curiosity,
the ones I cannot remember
but to which I quietly surrender,
as I am a vase crafted by the hands of destiny
and the ever changing state of humanity.
I am the moods bestowed by the seasons--
sometimes they mess up with my reason
and inside me grows a fight
of who I am and who I should be.
Who am I, definitely?
I can't really say...