modified from a recent writing exercise...

WHO ARE YOU?

The underbelly of a whale, I am down there waiting. And when your name comes up, I am scratching my head with the tips of a fork. Scraping the sore on the roof of my mouth--it would only heal if only... Beginning and end, I'm caring to see, seeing what matters. Watching storm clouds swirl like ice cream, I'm watching my cholesterol; keeping sneakers that started purple but have since bled gray. Awakened at five by a dense fog migraine, I’m popping pills in the bus, in the theater, in class—popping pills without water, collecting spit. I'm dreaming of the cure: grapefruit-sized, which must be swallowed whole. Thinking, this won’t go down—not even with milk. I’m a hundred-year old house, and its vibrating floorboards when a train rumbles through. I’m painting mountains at dawn on the inside of my walls, so I can peer in the mirror and see the sun on its way.

Not the cold dew under morning’s fog. Not swearing at the moon or reciting odes at your window. Not madly in love, nor even in hate. Not keeping close watch, but wanting a return of my own. Not struck into prayer at every fifth hour, nor even to daily breakfast rituals. Not practiced in the art of laughter out-loud, nor perhaps even in the art of laughter. Not eager to hear the mocking bird's cry, but enjoying it when it comes. Not a bottle of vinegar, grape juice and spirits; not a bent up spoon; nor a broken potter’s wheel. Not afraid to sing into waves; I'm not the stringy, shredded tassel on your bicycle handles; not the pasteurized cheese in last night's casserole; not the last on the team. Not the dripping faucet that just won’t stop, so it wastes and wastes—I am not. Even if I am, that is not what I am.