Sometimes... I wish I could end me.
Not necessarily my essence or my aura or my soul or... whatever,
But this pesky physicality that seems to annoy more than glorify.
I want to be air
So that I can rush around the people I love
And fill their lungs over and over
Being all that they need to survive.
I want to make a difference
Without actually being noticed or awarded afterward.
I want so many unreachable things...
I want to be the world's next Picasso,
Even though I am not, in fact, a man or even Spanish
But because art is in my blood, in my soul, and in my eyes.
I want to be the first black non-denominational woman president,
Even though I'm not black and I’m a Methodist
But because I need to feel special and loved and needed.
I want to invent a cure for cancer and be a regular Marie Curie,
Even though I hate doctors and the smell of antiseptic
But because I love helping people and I want to be remembered when I'm gone.
And I want frogs to grow wings
And I want my father to love me... really LOVE me.
But in reality... where air is air and I am me.
I'm just a kid who is destined to face the world by herself soon,
Alone and afraid for the first time in her life.
But air sounds good.
I would never die or become useless
For that is, quite possibly,
My greatest fear.
Floating in this endless abyss of a world
Seems better than the reality at hand.