I’m pouring, I’m souring, but they say I’m boring.
I’m living, I’m loving, but they say I’m faking.
I’m trying, but they just say I’m crying.
I’m thriving, I’m rising, but to them I’m just starving.
I’m healing, I’m feeling, but they just say I’m still dealing.
I’m writing, I’m fighting, but they say I am just cynical.
I’m carving, I’m devouring, but to them I’m just copy-and-pasting.
I’m being true to myself, but they say I’m hiding, I’m deceiving.
I’m raw, I’m blunt, I’m what I am to them, I’m rude and shrewd.
I’m embracing, I’m evolving —
am I becoming what I feared?

I am ten crows, twenty-three starlings,
one tree, a world of racket, every dusk that ever was.

I am a holy heart four angels defend,
other times I am nothing but flesh and fingertips.

There are four seasons, three necessities,
two sides to the moon.

The window has eight panes;
I am in them all.