at school my name is Ida,
the one that alternates
between lively chatter
and awkward silence

at home my name is Lily,
the one that starts disputes
as often as she tries to end them

to myself I am Chloé,
the one that waters the trees with her overflowing emotion,
spilling the both the agave syrup of a positive encounter
and the bitter vinegar of rejection
onto the roots of the plants she speaks to

the doctors guessed I was a girl,
and I would say they did a pretty good job of it

but with this guess comes the less accurate ones of others,
who think I must like boys
I would say that their guessing skills are less refined,
but neither are really notable

my hands are happiest when holding a pen,
whether using it to sketch out a face
or detail a notable event,

and when an instrument rests in them
my mind choreographing a dance
for my fingers to perform over the holes

this happiness spreads to the rest of me
when their efforts yield a thing of beauty







that happiness spreads to the rest of me when they are making something of beauty