You’re just a person.

You’re chill, and calm, bending down
to put a band aid on our scraped knee.
Telling us you know it hurts, but the jelly
will **** the bacteria. We ask
“what is bacteria?” You tell us.

It’s simple, yet complex.
Millions of little societies on our skin,
in our hair, on the pavement.

You teach us
through our tears
the world’s beauty.

But then, you’re just a person.

You can be a firecracker, yelling expletives
as you stub your toe, at the mess in the living
room, at how we messed up an already
imperfect world.

You can be so excited to do the thing
that you never explain to us
what that thing is.

You want to do it all,
and you want to do it all
right now.

And I realize, you’re just a person.

You have hard days. You forget to drink water.
You love the feeling of printed pages underneath
your fingertips.

You have to hold back tears letting go
of those who’ve wronged you.

But you laugh. And you care.

And you’re a person.

You’re no different from the stranger at the house
three doors down. You’re no more worthy
of telling your stories then they are.

You’re just a person.

I tell myself that one day, maybe I should
knock next door, ask if I can come inside,
and see what they have for a story.