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?

-db