What kind of novel would you like to be?



It’s not like a paint-by-numbers kit;
there no proper blueprint to tell you
what cell goes where and how many times
it should divide before it dies.
Your DNA? That’s more like…

There’s no line of code written
to describe the pigment of your skin,
or the wrinkles that are eventually
imprinted permanently upon it
like shadow tattoos of texture
and reveal how we’re all
really made of linoleum.

You’re not labeled with a doctor half
and a part that can never be good at mathematics;
there’s no yellow post-it note
placed on each part of your body
that says what it’s capable of,
like a star who wants to collapse
into a black hole but isn’t quite massive enough.

There’s no cheat sheet of your personality
that keeps the secret messages
your neurons send to each other
when the rest of your body is asleep,
nor is there a guide to how many
times you blink before
you close your eyes for the night.

And why is there not a bible
describing who you are
tucked away in one hidden space,
with all your quirks and questions
and the stuff that makes former
lovers want you back and hate you
at the same time?

The simple fact is,
You haven’t written the rulebook yet.

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