And if I wasn’t me?

You held my hand today.

It didn’t fit.

My fingers were clumsy

And heavy.

And they slipped

Between your calluses

To knock against my hip.

And I wonder if I should tell you

That I saw a penny

Last week.

All glossy

And shimmery

And bright.

I’m sure it held a thousand wishes,

But I twisted my head

And picked up my pace

And didn’t stoop to pick it up.

When I look at you,

I know to bite my cheek.

For who am I

If not a girl

Of magic pennies

And pockets

Full of luck?

Did you know that

The soap on my kitchen counter

Is different now -

It smells of lemons

And Europe.

Tangy

And tart

And altogether too harsh.

I smell the citrus

As I dress

In clothes you’ve never seen,

In clothes I’ve never worn,

In clothes that

Are not

Mine.

And my nose droops lower these days.

A distortion, perhaps.

I have to squint in the shower

To just barely make out

My left arm, my hip.

I get dizzy trying to grasp

Onto the blurry familiarity

Of my freckles,

Of my pulse,

Of my bones.

You always said I reminded you of willows

And daisies

And cobblestone roads.

But my edges are getting sharp

And sticky.

(Have you not noticed

I have become a

Wooden splinter?)

I am no longer quiet.

I am no longer kind.

I am no longer much at all.

Tell me, darling, am I myself or a shadow,

And if so, would you still love me smokey gray?

After all,

the soap on my kitchen counter

Smells of lemons.

But it has always smelled of rose,

(It has always smelled of rose).