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
Toward the within... 