I am.

I am not my nicotine stained fingers
that tremble while making love.
I am not the ink that traces
unfathomable patterns on my skin.
I am not the scraps of metal
that adorn my vanishing being,
I am not the yellowing bottles
that rise high above my bin.
I am the string of words that come pouring out
in the unholy hours of twilight,
I am the memories given form
using fading ink and starlight.
I am the worlds greatest story,
the one that you shall never read.

I am not the garish ring
that drags my knuckles across the floor,
I am not the line of lovers
that I take behind its back.
I am not the man who took me
before I knew what it was to love,
I am not the filthy gold
he buys to cover all he lacks.
I am a ray of light scattered
by gleaming silver chains,
I am the humming of the clouds
just before it rains.
I am the worlds greatest beauty,
that your eyes refuse to behold.

I am not the crisp white shirt
that is fraying at the edges,
I am not the lamp that burns
as I desperately count sheep.
I am not the empty house
that greets my tired broken frame,
I am not another statistic
to be disposed of as you please.
I am the glint in the lions eyes
as he sizes up his prey,
I am the thoughts that swim inside your head,
in discord with what you say.
I am an unremarkable miracle,
of which your religion never speaks.

I am not the disapproving glares
or leering smirks that greet me,
I am not the myriad of lonely men
that pay me for my love.
I am not the lone incandescent bulb
casting shadows on the walls,
I am not the creaking floorboards
as they leave one by one.
I am the rustling of the leaves
in a gentle summer symphony,
I am the patterns in the dappled sunlight
whispering a story.
I am the worlds brightest flame,
one that you can never douse.