I am a million things;
I am whispers,
and I am letters,
and I am eccentric,
I am rather a queer fellow, aren’t I?
And I am a hat of someone else’s choosing and a pair of sensible, well-shined shoes, and I am green carnations and pansies and violets and grass,
and I am coded languages named after the North Star,
and I am constellations,
and I am wild,
and I am a memory,
and I am hiding,
and I am subtext and undertones and euphemisms and implications,
and I am the euphoria of finally being seen,
and I am a freak,
and I am an animal,
and I am going to hell,
and I am a sin,
and I am proud,
and I am bricks and riots,
and I am chorus lines,
and I am theatres and plays,
and I am acting, and I am pretending,
and I am backstage,
and I am backrooms,
and I am closets,
and I am kitchens,
and I am family,
and I am song,
and I am a king,
and I am stardust,
and I am a cannon,
and I am… you know… and I am creation, and I am destruction
and I am smashing things apart,
and I am beautiful,
and I am pain,
and I am buses,
and I am a village,
and I am ambiguity,
and I am a history,
and I am living on after death,
And above all,
I am not alone.