A Haiku: I Struggle with Naming Things


I often wonder if, where, when it is okay to tell my story. 


A rabbit, or anything

It’s a strange thing

no one teaches you to be

or calls you human


from birth, as you die

I wonder if it’s alright 

then to be a bird,


call yourself Sparrow,

maybe then watching rain clouds

wouldn’t feel lonely.


You see, I was born

to a regretful summer,

or at least Thursday.


I’m sure I cried,

or laughed, then learned to stop

 among other things.


I wanted to be 

a rabbit or anything 

other than me.


Only one question,

unspoken, fills the seasons.

Will I be human?








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