Poetry With Hart

My skin doesn’t fit
over all of me

spilling out, slipping out
mind over mouth, soul

an ocean emerging in waves
pouring from my eyes.

I try containing it
a sieve to hold back the sea.

So instead I try to bottle it,
this facsimile  of a face

we falsely see as identity.
I am all the labels

fluid or at least, fitting
new forms of pressure created

at every moment the air
calls upon me to be.

I am water.