For I Am, What I Am

My fingers,
Mesmerized, I stare
Its hand has lines
Mismatched patterns.

They say futures were meant to be read
Not created,
You were born to be something,
Not something else.

Society cries its norms,
Binds you to customs,
“You’re a girl, remember dear!
What you see and believe,
Influenced by pretentious peers.”

I stare at a Benson Lights,
Fitted comfortably between two fingers,
I know of the smell inside,
A deep inhale, the feeling incite.

They are all familiar to me,
Women are meant to be quiet,
Observed, not heard.
They remind me time and again.

But I want to fly,
Without wings, I know I can touch the sky.
Dirt-biking, para sailing,
Football courts, a shot never failing.

Converses, spikes
Cooking? I’m not your type.
Late night long drives,
Bob Dylan humming to Pink Floyd.

Gush of wind,
Breath of change,
Your mind is too small
My world can’t be shared.

Faded jeans, dialled watches,
Metal chains, bottled gingerale;
Your fancy giving, silver and yellows
A hidden sigh, a public yawn.

Not innovative!
Trying to be different?
Won’t work here.

“Mirror, mirror
There you are,
Who do you see
Between these walls?”

A graceless smile
Passes between reflections,
She knows me,
She knows of my unkempt desires,
The lust of my youth,
A few dreams, scattered here forth.

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