who I are

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I can write pretty words. 

I can beat sentences into a cadence.

I can spin the smoke and mirrors of line and stanza. 


Smoke and mirrors that hide me

keep me here on my side of the screen

safe

untouched

unknown


The truth is that I am an open book

There is little of my story that I won't tell

or so you think


"I am a classic over sharer," I declare,

laughing to disguise the shame of it

hoping you will believe it 

and not probe too deeply

because 


The truth is I am scared

to say too much 

to be too much

to stand out

to fade away


I create containers 

for myself 

then fling them out of the car window

in my feeble attempts

to have something to say

something to show

and they gather there

like so much discarded trash

on the side of the road


Don't get me wrong.

I am not saying that I am trash

I am not saying that my words are trash

I am saying that I have treated them as such


The work of these hands is sacred and holy

to be worshiped and adored

to be honored above all other

to be lifted up 

to be loved


Are you cringing? 

I am. 

Who am I to say such things

about myself?


Who am I? 


The long and winding road always leads to this question

This singular question

which when asked of another

is correct

who ARE you ... plural. 

and we always try to answer

in the singular

I am. 


But I am plural

I contain multitudes 

( thanks walt whitman)


I takes a lifetime to know who you are

and I'm not done living yet

So I am not done knowing

Who I are. 



Cynthia LeeComment