I Was Told to Write an About Me and This is What Happened

“Each time I’m asked to tell about myself, I find myself starting the same way: “My name is Kelsey and I’m nineteen..”
 but what I’d really like to say is: 
“My name means island of the ships but once 
I found a translation that said I’m a burning shipwreck—
not a burning ship but a ship that has caught fire 
after the wreckage and well, I’d say that’s more fitting.”

I’ve learned that people don’t have time for about me’s.
 They need two things: a name and an indication you’re someone special.

The doctors, they want facts not details.
 “I broke my leg when I was three, it’s a funny story actually—“
The right or the left?” 
Conversation over.

The teachers, they want interests, hobbies.
 You’re sad, yes, but what do you like to do? The adults are a spew of questions. 
What school do you go to? What classes are you taking?
 What do you plan on becoming? Got a boyfriend?
 No, stop.

People my own age are the worst. 
“I’m planning on an English degree with a concentration in creative writing.”
 Yeah, aren’t we all. So how many times have you, you know,
 done it?

I’m pulled apart, my interests traveling highway to
 my goals at a stop light at traffic hour,
 my medical history on a billboard for the world to see.
 But what about me?

Where’s the chance to say, 
“I hang on to fistfuls of poetry like loose change in my pockets,
 and I keep waiting for the day that the world turns upside down
 so I can swim with the stars.
 I’m not afraid of darkness, it’s a loneliness I can empathize with it. 
It’s the blackholes like cigarette burns inside of me that get troublesome.
 I walk through graveyards and read the dashes between years,
 each a story I’ll never know. Sometimes I create my own.”

No one, none of us know who we are anymore.”

Kelsey Danielle


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