This Poem Is Not
This poem is not your lover, or the man sitting at the table next to you at a restaurant you can’t afford, but you sit inside to see the menu. This poem is not the answer, to that question you had in the middle of the night about why you even exist and if you even care. This poem is not your teacher, the only one you remember taught you everything because she showed you how to hide inside a book. This poem is not your friend, the one you had when you were five and laughed with you at things that could not under any circumstances be considered funny. This poem is not your mother, the only one you lied to, cried to, hated, loved, and eventually killed. This poem is not your soul, the one you found that moment in the middle of two notes in a song you can’t remember the words to. This poem is not you, or who you think you are when you look in the mirror and try to hide your face. This poem is not the air that you breathe, that you suspect is slowly killing you and has in it chemicals you cannot pronounce, causing diseases you have never heard of. This poem is just that, words strung together trying so hard to make sense of the way we occupy space. This poem is not why.
nina
