Bleeding poetry and thinking nothing

of the consequences.

Letting want speak to me in a steady breath

and listening to it openly.

Grouping whatever pieces of themselves others give me

into something I call me.

Each day, I am relearning

the tune of myself.

Memory says,

You have done this dance so many times before.

And I respond,

I will do this dance in as many different selves,

Places and seasons as I can.

I am not looking to be contained in

simple one-word

definitions of the self.

I will die a verb,

a force, a thing that has bled out

so many names

that no noun can hold it.