I am, I am.

I’m not who you think I am.

I’m not fists and I’m not hands.

I’m not broken houses

or faded paint

or crooked shutters.

Not missing fillings

or empty medicine cabinets

or crumbling hip bones.

I’m not a hurricane like I used to be. I’m too far inland and all out of heart. Hurricanes get tired in Utah. Hurricanes run out of reasons to flood houses and tear down power lines. Call it passion, call it anger, they run out.

I’m not cracked sidewalks or exposed tree roots.

I’m not the vacant apartment.

Not torn wallpaper or property damage.

I’m not a police report.

I’m not the unopened book at Barnes and Nobles. My pages are worn, dog-eared. There’s tear stains and grease stains. There’s notes in pencil, crayon, and three colors of pen. 

Man, I was loved.

I am not a cigarette butt

Not a Vegas whore.

Not a one time use, get your money’s worth.

I am a diamond that your wife wants to wear every day as a symbol of forever.

I want to kiss her finger when she drives the kids to school in her pajamas.

I want her to put me ahead of her bra on the priority list.

I want to be a symbol of promise.

You will hang me on your wall,

nailed to a crucifix,

and look at me every time you walk up the stairs.

I want to be Martin Luther King’s speeches and Shakespeare’s love stories. I will be as idealistic as politicians and speed limits, and as realistic as emergency rooms and death dates.

I’ve been unwashed hands and the priest who rinsed them. I am a Bible and a centerfold, Vegas and Provo. I am a nudist colony and General conference. I am a god and a devil, sinner and saint. I read the Book of Mormon and I support gay marriage.

I am duct tape. I may not be cement pushing a building to its feet, but these days, I congratulate myself on holding my limbs to my torso, my brain in my head, and my heart in my chest.

And damnit, I am metallic. I capture the light of the moon in my fishing net. And that’s all I’ve got. I want to prove that I can still shine after the devil’s had me in his boxing ring and the gloves are out.

I lost the fight, but I’m winning the rematch. Hell, I’m so glad to still be swinging that I will donate all the prize money if I ever get out of here. Listen, I am the good guy. I am the lead in a successful indie film that got an eighty percent on Rotten Tomatoes. You’re cheering for me. You’re taping pictures of me in your lockers. You hipsters are listing me as your celebrity crush and I have haters telling me I’m overrated, and I like them too. At least they’re talking about me.

And I’ve got two black eyes, but I’ve still got this silver lining tracing my bruises. Baby, I’m reflecting this light above me. Gotta make room for second chances and holy water. Because honey, I’m the crest of a wave. I’m the foam on the sand. I wash off easy and I don’t stain your clothing. I’m forgiveness. I’m translucent. I’m forgettable.

But I keep looking after the train leaves, after the leaves fall, and I never forget the lines on your hands. I may have been fists. I may have been teeth, but I’m not anymore. I’m offering myself next to a spoonful of sugar so I go down easier the next time. I don’t weigh down your backpack. I just like to watch from afar. I like to see your smile more than I like to see you understand because honey, your smile is beautiful.

Listen, my rhythm is not as blue as it used to be. My nails aren't as sharp and my words don’t cut as deep. I can even make small talk now. Please drink me in and remind me what it feels like to be wanted.

I’m tired of spelling out love love love on the keyboard thinking it will find its way into my bloodstream. I’m stuck in high school. I write love love love on my arms and I hear love love love on the radio, but my heart doesn't beat any faster and there’s not a face that comes to my head.

I try to whisper love love love to my house, but it’s not loud enough. Remember, I’m translucent. I don’t stain your clothes. But I’m not loud enough. And that has always been the catch.