I.

My LinkedIn says I’m a data analyst, 

My mom says I’m an aspiring actress,

My neighbors say that I’m a babysitter,

And my sister says I’m unemployed.

My college degree says I’m a graduate of their film program,

Although I haven’t made a film.

My friends say I have a big personality,

Which I don’t disagree with. 

My girlfriend says that I’m her girlfriend.

My old therapist says I’ve gotten better.

II.

Inside my room I am a writer, 

A painter,

And a musician.

I am a singer, 

A dancer,

And sometimes an exercise instructor.

I am an actress,

A cosmetologist, 

A tattoo artist, 

And a stripper.

III.

I leave my house,

Get into my car,

And think of something to listen to. 

I sit at the dinner table with my family,

And think of something to say.

I lay in bed at night exhausted from all the things I’ve done in my head,

Apart from all the physical tasks I’ve completed throughout the day.

But does that make the things I’ve done inside my mind,

Even things at all? 

Depends on who you ask. 

God?

Some higher power?

My tarot cards tell me I’m someone just figuring it out.

They say something like that every time. 

IV.

When I am everything I am in my room,

My safe box,

The present I live inside becomes a gift, 

And I still,

Am able to feel the Earth turning. 

Outside of my safe box,

Mouths open with questions, 

Asking the same inquiries of who I am and what do I do?

Then I must decide which self will begin speaking,

Or if certain selves are even valid to speak at all.

I ask myself: 

Am I everything I am if no one sees it?

Am I everything I am if no one’s watching?

Am I everything I am if no one hears me?

V.

If a seed dispersed into soft soil,

And was kept in a pot on the windowsill of my room,

Creating the perfect habitat for the seed to germinate,

Would it be real,

Even if no one knew it was there,

Except for the plant’s consciousness?

What if the next day it began to rain?

The growth of the plant would flourish under the dirt,

Even though no one could see how many roots have formed beneath the soil,

The roots would be there anyway.

Eventually, 

The birds, 

And squirrels, 

And the people that come into my room,

Will see the small plant’s stem.

Their validation will pour over the baby plant like sunlight, 

Does that finally make the plant real?

Even though the plant already knows that it is real,

Because it’s been growing in its soil this whole time.

Maybe someone will see the pot in my windowsill,

And wonder to themselves what kind of plant is growing in it?

They’ll throw around the many titles for what the plant could be.

Like the plant,

My roots will continue to grow,

And until my stem sees the sun’s light,

I know what I am,

And I know,

That I am real.