Autobiography

She is made of sun flowers and unreasonable questions
she drinks the sky in her morning coffee
while curiosity holds her hand.

Her lips are too passive when time calls to be bold,
but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence.

Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe
most comfortable against her skin.
She’s been told that the sun compliments
the night of her hair and people often tell her
that she wears the ocean in her eyes.

Her body sings an undefined melody;
a Janis Joplin meets Norah Jones type of concert
echoing in the movement of her walk.
Stuck between personalities she builds a collage of her soul,
almost as messy as her bedroom floor.

In the summer months she bathes daily in the sunshine,
hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up
all the promise left in its rye's.

She dips herself in revelry,
and tiptoes through the rain
as if each drop wore the delicacy of a secret.

She struts her messy hair and dirty toes;
wears no makeup when the sun leaves fingerprints on her cheeks.

She carries her life bled to the paper beneath
a yellow binding that rests in her purse.

She finds that the words ‘I love you’
never leave her mouth at the right time.
And when heartbreak dressed her on the morning that he left,
she searched for answers at the bottom of old whisky bottles and new eyes.

She wishes she could proudly carry innocence upon her skin again,
because those were the years she still felt beautiful.

(1st draft, unfinished)