Little artifacts of me are left wherever I’ve been.
Poets on two continents have written about the value of one of these single long black strands of protein – evidence that somebody was there.
But did it ever matter which person was formerly attached to that hair?
Or was it just a confirmation they exist, as they endlessly ask themselves, what am I?
The poets, the dancer, the red-haired boy, the father of my children, the rapist, the collective others, the pedophiles, the narcissist, the artist – they all endlessly asked themselves, what am I?
At least the artist was honest and told me he was the only thing that mattered…yeah, I did like him…
Only one person ever really loved or cared for me. He crossed the sandlot mid practice to talk to me as I passed by, but I was late meeting new fake girlfriends and didn’t notice what his words meant. I stopped in my tracks two blocks away when it hit me. I never talked to him again, I was too terrified.
I would shave my head and give him all the strands I have, to listen at the sandlot again. I would become a Buddhist for him. But he wouldn’t ask that of me, because he loved me for who I was. He didn’t have to ask, what am I? He was a boy who loved baseball and a strange sad girl.
The artist once said the perfect girl is the one you can never have. Maybe I am the sandlot boy’s perfect girl.