I Can Be

Everything I remind myself of to confirm I exist at all.

I am somebody’s daughter. I used to be tiny and cradled in my mother’s womb. I used to be the Barysphere within the Earth that was my mother’s belly, rising and falling, for I could be safe and sound, while she portrayed enormous strength. I am somebody’s daughter. I am one of the people referred to when a father mentions the fact he has got three children.

I am somebody’s sister. I am the feminine in presence of the masculine — I bring light and dark and I shine some light in the dark, while sleeping in the room next to a brothers’. In residing in this house, I am. A brother feels safe because his sister sleeps on the same floor. I am somebody’s sister. I am considered at birthdays, events and Fridays after busy weeks when bellies are hungry and brothers want dinners, desserts and catch-ups. I might be an emergency contact in files and on papers.

I am somebody’s pupil. I am one of many who lines up each day, to sit in front class and listen, reciprocate — to learn and grow truly. I am being graded, and somebody wonders why I write what I write in essays, the way I write it, why I say what I say, the way I say it, in debates, or why my laugh sounds equally sharp and steady. I am somebody’s pupil. Somebody wonders what will become of me. Somebody wonders what I do on Wednesdays, when class ends early and we are free to go. To be.

I am somebody’s friend. A friend thinks of me on Sundays, or during colder bursts of Autumn. She thinks of me after crying the tears she had not shed for long. She desires to pour her waters over me, for I could be the rock, providing a solid structure for these waters to find their way onto. They would not erode my vessel, I would remain standing and the water would pour freely. I am somebody’s friend. I am in somebody’s close circle.

I used to be somebody’s lover. I pop up in dreams, remnants from the past — I pop up in fantasies and poems, in-between the lines. I used to be the skin that was longed for, the lips that wanted to be petted and heard. I used to be a merging of somebody’s lover and himself — I used to be both two and one. I used to be somebody’s lover. I pop up in Freudian slips. Somebody wonders if I am living the dreams I used to talk of, and if I have read the books I used to mean to. Somebody wonders if I have seen the places I used to want to visit, and the phases I used to hope to one day find myself in, even if without him.

I have got hands. Those hands are an elongation of arms, arms I carry and cradle with. I have got legs. Lean and long. They twirl, and on my toes, I turn. I have got shoulders. Yes, as does anyone else, shoulders I have got, all the same. Those shoulders are small in width, they don’t take up a lot of space. They are being compressed by the surrounding thick air, the air that is thick from dense tensions, terrors, emotions that are picked up upon, from dense joys, sorrows, news briefs and announcements. I have got breasts. Breasts or mountains — those breasts reside in an eternal paradise that is the Body, equivalent to the Earth.

I have got feet. Earth feels me pressing atop her grounds — to her, the temperature of my being is known and familiar. She can distinguish between me and others, between me and past versions of me, even when I cannot. She knows my timbre, the way I sometimes halt and falter. She feels for me, with me — together we find ourselves in an embrace, a holding of weights and stories, narratives that are weaved by the complexity of both our Baryspheres and Freudian slips. She smiles when I smile, dances along to the rhythms of my twirls and turns. She is me. I am her. Yes, we are. We can be. I am. I can be.

I can be.