Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

I Am Me

I am a human.
I have emotions.
I am seen.
I am heard.
I am me.

People don't know me.
Walk past me.
Loved ones steal from me.
Strangers hate me.
I am me, but not my me.

My eyes have been stolen
from the pictures of space seen on the internet.
My smile molded by the cameras shouting
'Say cheese!'.
My life thrifted from everyone I see.
I am me, but not my me, that one's mine.

Mine in the sense
that it is kept underground
in a box made of steel,
with a lock and key,
the key found riding the waves of my stomach acid.

Mine in the sense
that I must protect me,
wrapping me in bubble wrap
so that I am not shattered
like the porcelain teapot I am.

Mine in the sense
that the day I unsheath me
for the world to see,
nobody will even notice
I'm not the me you know anymore,
it will be that long.

I am me,
but not my me,
that one's mine,
but I'll share my me someday,
and it won't just be mine anymore.