I wake up someone new every day,
but they keep asking me to be the same person.
To pick one.
As if I were a blueprint that must be built,
instead of ink that keeps bleeding through the page,
rewriting itself before it dries.
I want everything.
To be everything.
To live every life that has ever been lived.
To wake up in another body, another country,
another dream I once had at fourteen and let go of at fifteen.
I want to be on billboards and courtrooms,
inside cockpits and classrooms,
to be a poet, an actress, a philosopher, a god.
To stretch myself so thin across the world
that I become a myth, even to myself.
I’ve walked past doors that won’t open again.
Left behind lives that still pull at me.
But I was never meant to answer to just one name.
I spill over.
I don’t end.
I can’t explain it.
Not the constant restlessness,
Not how my mind flips itself over,
switching sides,
hating the world, then shrugging it off,
believing, then letting it rot.
I am too much of everything,
and too little of anything.
But I will not be small or concrete.
I will be everyone, everywhere, doing everything, all at once.
I will never be the same person twice.