It took me 30 years, not 10, to really start finding myself again:
To drink my way toward sobriety,
To scream/snore my weekends toward balance,
To impulse-buy my closet toward a yard sale,
To sugar/grease my mouth toward a salad,
To brag my way down to humility,
To hate-rage forth my kindness,
To lie-twist my seams into “I’m not your dream,”
To slobber/tooth-clack toward a fine kiss,
To boob-job my chest toward acceptance,
To punch-kick the drywall toward tender,
To repeat-shout my views into “I love how you think!”
And gun-mount my towers to surrender.
It took me permanent injuries
To myself, to friends, to strangers…
To forgive my own hands, and your hands, for life's—sting;
To respect (more than fear) this world's dangers.
To end smooth
as skull bones
And soft
as old leather,
Complete
as a puzzle piece:
myself
altogether.