I’m shedding.

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.