A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.
Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.
My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.
Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.
Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.
I am torn between
what is and what might be.