You grew. When did your nose sharpen from a stub When did your eyes rust When did your cheeks learn to plump up When did your sobs learn to burst Who are these new voices that speak inside of you Which of these have you adopted And which have adopted you Did you make these decisions when You grew? You knew. Did your tears flow out to lubricate the hands that came to wipe them off before they rolled Or did they roll out before being wiped? You flew by a storm-ful of people When did your wishes learn to not shelter truths Your dreams learned about death Your arms learned to hold while You flew. How did you split yourself into pieces to show these pieces one by one How did you ever learn what you like How did you ever live when no question ever ends. No report from the self is truth.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.