I have a friend who frequently asks the question, “Who is
your person?” And by person, She means the human being that you pour yourself
into, transforming them into a jar, knowing that they’ll always be there to
hold you together even when you feel as fluid as water. The person that knows
every detail of not only your corpse, but also your soul. Who loves you, As
deeply as you love them. “Who is your person?”
She asks me for the second time, My answer to this question left her
with a tongue stained reflection. The sappy words of, “I’m my own person,” Fell
from my tongue. Now, this may sound horribly arrogant. But I’ll assure you that it’s not meant to
be, You see, I’m too afraid of letting someone know me, that way that I know
myself. I’ve been there before, and the person was not the jar that they
claimed to be. Letting my broken pieces seep onto the floor. I’m my own person,
because I’m messy and indecisive. And what a task it would be for someone to
have to sweep up my emotions after a meltdown. I’m my own person because I find
it hard to trust due to the fact that I once laced my cigarettes with a boy,
Who did not lace his with me, I’m my own person, because I am horrible at the
art of sharing. I either give myself completely away, or keep completely to
myself. There’s no grey with me. I’m my own person. Because I’ve embraced the
depth of myself. And I’ve tasted how fragile tears can be. I’m my own person, Because
I prefer to have control of the ink while my story is being written.
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