Full of Myself.

I've gone on and on about all the stories of the humans that make up my life.

Those that have touched me.

People that have left open wounds.

Some that I loved and those who loved me back.

But what about me?

Where are all the lines about the poet herself?

I understand, that book isn't finished yet.

Well since I am so full of myself and I can't be anyone else but me.

I'm a really weird person from the Midwest.

Please, I don't want to say 'bag' anymore.

Indigenous blood runs through my veins.

I have all these scars from thinking I wasn't good enough.

I dye my hair the blackest shade of ink I can find.

Speaking of black, that's the only color you'll see me in.

I'm covered in tattoos and have a bunch of holes in my face.

Don't ask me to stick my tongue out.

My hair is cut short in the back.

No, I'm not really that tall but my shoulders are wide.

But the platforms I wear give me a few more inches.

If you see me without my pentagram necklace, ask me if I'm okay.

I love to smile all the time.

I think my laugh is annoying but some say it's the best thing about me.

There are times I can be really funny.

I fall in love all the time.

I love a guy now but we are lost and broken, too far away.

But I love my roadrunner too.

I have all these friends who I consider family.

Since I no longer have family who raised me.

You will find me painting pictures with bright colors and lines you can't see.

I write about things that make me happy and sad.

If you show me a song, I'll probably listen to it a million times.

I have mild C-PTSD from trauma that I'm still learning wasn't my fault.

Sometimes I get strange thoughts that I can't shake.

I get anxious when things change too much.

I drink way too much diet coke.

I've been called Rachel, Rabbit, BunBun, Bitch, and Shiny.

I have had three last names in my life but I think this last one is going to stick.

If I love you, I'll give you a nickname and call you that for the rest of my life.

See? I told you I was full of myself.

These are the things that make me, me.

So the poet becomes a poem.