Me

I just want to be me,

but that’s forbidden.

I do it anyway—

the desires of a bunch of phony barbies to reduce me are not tallied here.

All I need to be me is a river and a mountain and an ocean and a forest and a lover and a friend and a sky with a day moon and night stars. A really good band should be playing all of the music I love, all 134 genres so I can dance barefoot when I want, have some blues lovin’ with my lover, swim whenever I want, salt or fresh, climb a mountain, ride the surf, or drift down a river.

I want to be me in a tree, high up on the branches where hawks and eagles build their aeries, surrounded by the greenery of the leaves drenched in the sunlight they filter.

I suppose I could be me in the city, dress myself in a skirt that swishes while my heels clatter down through an art galleries and overpriced lunches, or maybe slink down the sidewalks at night, slip into a dirty bar with a band of unknowns straight tearing up the stage while I dance in the dark.

Nah, that’s not real enough for me to breathe the way I need to, there’s no sand, clay, or dirt to dig my toes into, no mountain in the distance, no wild river to get lost in. Take your takeout and uber and give them to someone else—they aren’t required for being me.

Don’t try being me—I’m the only one who can do it. No, that’s not selfish, conceited, narcissistic, or any of the other labels that won’t stick. Besides, you should be too busy being you to even give me a try as anything other than a companion.

Being me requires thinking on my feet, sarcasm, literature, art, music, theatre, love, friendship, communion—soulful and otherwise, good bourbon, strength, resilience, thick skin, the ability to suck it up, a good rock collection, a good bathtub to unwind in, magic and witchcraft, sunshine and moonlight, humor, passion, and failure, and forgiveness.

Being me involves ruffling feathers but also an exorbitant amount of sucking it up. For real— what I say upsets you? Oh, sweetie that’s been candy-coated and euphemised before getting dropped off at the spin doctor’s for a full luxury treatment. If what I say upsets you, what I think would require a signature on a waiver and proof of an ensuing appointment with a licensed therapist. Otherwise, it’s just not safe.

That’s another prerequisite for being me—you really can’t care about safety, security, something to fall back on, any of that. You’ve got to be willing to risk everything, fall flat on your face (forward, not back), get laughed at, be ignored, and keep going.

Who do I want to be? Me.