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  • Writer's pictureQuinn

The Real Me

The real me plays music loudest first thing in the morning and dances in the shower to songs on repeat

The real me is pulling wrinkled laundry from the clean pile and tossing it back when my mind has changed

The real me is crying now to the song that came on and so I’m writing you poems again

The real me lights it up before my feet hit the floor and lives off coffee until mid afternoon—then it’s cereal for dinner

The real me ignores dishes in the sink and forgets garbage day, on purpose

She hates panties and bras and outfits that don’t make a statement

The real me is addicted to nostalgic austerity and longs for times passed

The real me prioritizes pleasure and lust and peace and resists any mundane nuisance

She indulges and plays and makes love in the beams from the sun

She slips into bed early and sleeps in late

She scribbles and finger paints, collages and improvs

She’s leaking out all over the place with love and effervescence

The real me is glitter and grace and impulse and creation

I’m an energy source beaming out to receptors

And it’s you I’m streaming into

Let me in—let the real me blaze your trails and squeeze your juices

Drinking in luscious waves of manifested beauty

Connecting and touching and dancing between silk sheets and speakers blaring

The real me has burst into life and you can see me

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