I Am Undefined

No poet am I.

Yet I bleed the stain of memory.

Brown bloodied crimson

Ringed with purple ochre.

I have no need of impossible things.

Yet I am an impossible thing.

A woman who prefers

Other women.

A woman who does not read of God

But who breathes with God.

I am no teacher.

Yet I shatter

Stereotypical notions

While breaking the limits

My own blood has set for me.

I posses no skill at war.

Yet I fight

For everything inside me

That screams “More”.

No weaver am I.

Yet I loop the scattered strands

Of human memory

And see that they are

All the same.