Like collaging layers of parchment on top of one another,
I have buried myself underneath the rubble of trauma.
Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
or a phoenix rising from its ashes,
I am discovering my autobiography
written in between lines of poetry
Every word I scribble in a frantic attempt
to name a feeling that is beyond words
is my way of sketching the rocket ship
that will guide me back to my galaxy.
The sanitized version of reality
is a bitter pill to swallow,
but I see myself in the paint splatters
and little messes
she was so anxious to take a damp rag to.
(This is an imperfect work of art,
lines crooked and acrylics splashing out of bounds.
This is not something that will catch the eye
of an art dealer.
This is my little mistake on canvas,
but, you see, that inked-in star
is home for me.)
I have spent years skirting underneath
piles of paper, hiding from who I could be
but the truth is
I could be amazing
if you listen to this autobiography.
Who am I?
I’m in media res,
still in the progress of discovery,
but I swear, even in the shattered mosaic bits,
I, too, can shimmer.
I too can shine.
(It is because of your belief in mirrors and me
that I can see the vestiges of beauty
through the broken.)