I am. That is a fact.

I am the hope for better times. 

Though I am sometimes worse. 

But I am. 

At least, that is a fact.

I am the girl that wakes up in the morning, searching for where her confidence has gone to.
I am the girl that needs to learn to speak again.
I am my lack of confidence.
I am her little baby body, so close and warm against my skin.
I am my quest for self - love.
I am the story of the forest guard, losing his shack due to the early winter winds.

I am the country, burning.
I am the fear for global warming.
I am the pesticides on food.

I am her unspoiled baby life, still rich in front of her.
I am the change. Some change.
I am the television screen.
I am my friends in Europe, who walk through their luxurious streets, so full of their seductive shops.
I am a lot of bread with cheese.
I am the head, too wide for all the corners of my mind.
I am the way I try again, each and every day again.
I am our township friend, who calls us early in the morning, so very drunk.
I am corruption that won’t go away.
I am the change as well.

My skin breathes in and out this world.
My skin receives.

I am the mangoes sold along the street in Durban.
I am the Afrikaans street names over which they fight.
I am my Facebook page, too full of facts.
I am the one that needs the change.

I am the ocean in Kalk Bay, where an old lady died, bitten to pieces by a shark on her early morning swim.
I am the baby girl, so eager to stand on her own feet.
I am the body, craving sexual touch and wet, wet longings.
I am the way we start again. Again.

At least, I am.
That is a fact.

I am the donkeys down in Grahamstown, pulling an old wooden cart
I am the bright green skirt of the woman selling her ten banana’s in front of Pick and Pay.
I am the chicken, waiting to be killed.
I am the things I keep forgetting to write down.
I am the black sign, selling apple crumble for twenty rand.
I am my mental notes, my downfall and my rise.

The world breathes through my pores. In & out.

I am the one that lost its core.
I am a mirror, broken.
I am the glue.

I am the Fuze Tea, Coca Cola, Fanta and Valpre.
I am pollution.
I am the famous Facebook picture of a seagull wrapped in plastic.
I am our oceans, drowning.
I am the time to change our environmental policies.
I am that time running out of time.
I am Sowetan township jazz.
I am my homeland that I left behind, to find myself drinking rooibos tea on a small farm near the border of Lesotho.
I am the one with a mind wondering how to connect these dots.
I am the mother, screaming like never before, when the baby girls comes out of the womb
I am the weatherman, having to warn for yet another tropical storm in Florida.
I am the politicians, refusing to fund environmental agencies.

I am the change.
& I am all of this.

I am my poor overheated head, waking up one morning in a sleepy, small Karoo town.
I am my body, all my cells that carry all these memories.
I am the questions in my feet.
I am the sheep, being slaughtered at five o’clock in the morning.
I am the snake that bit the cow.

I am all of these confusing facts.

But I am.
At least that is a fact, for sure.

I am the muscle of my heart.
I carry bits and pieces underneath my thirty eight year old skin.
I am my quest for better, more.
I am the skyscrapers in Toronto on a sunny Sunday morning.
I am the millions of impressions, stored somewhere inside, gathered all throughout my life.
I am the oak tree where the thunder strikes.
I am the ripe lemons on our property.
I am the emails, waiting for replies.
I am the enter, page up, page down, F9, F7, 6 & 8 buttons.
I am the whole world, stored beneath my skin.
I am the revolution, yet about to start.
I am the buckets full of water underneath our leaking roof.
I am the big silver jewels on her right hand.
I am the old diamond mine in Kimberley.
I am the zama-zama’s, searching with their bare hands for tiny lost valuable pieces on the outskirts of the old industrial town.
I am the wetlands, thirsty for the rains.
I am my jealousy for her successful career at three o’clock in the morning.
I am the coke, the crack, sold in my hometown’s harbor.
I am the white expensive pen that someone stole.
I am the dangerous consequences of your guns.
I am the small scale farmer, considering a tragic suicide if the rain won’t come for yet another day.
I am - again - the memory of all my cells, carrying these views, stories, smells & people.
I am the urinated, dark corners in the back alleys of Paris.

I am my mind, waking up in foggy clouds, trying to make sense of this.
I am the way this list could go on, & on.

I am the French croissants we ate on a drunk Thursday morning, in the middle of our midsummer holiday in the South of France.
I am the fog, the frog, in my own mind.

But I am.
At least, that is a fact.

I am the children of Hiroshima, with distorted limbs, forgotten by the lenses of the world news.
I am  my mind, travelling so wide and far.
I am my cells, searching for a way out of this contrasting and confusing world.
I am my body, longing for a hot rose petal bath to wash away the surplus of impressions, stored beneath my skin.

Who are we, & me?
At least, I am. That is a fact.

I am secretive background statistics, searching what they could sell me now me today.
I am the leather notebook with the old and torn out pages.
I am the tons of sugar in your blue milkshake.
I am the way this could go on, & on …

I am the last leaves on our tree, before the autumn season comes.
I am the way the airplane flies through different time zones.
I am the fear our baby girl will catch a cold, or worse, some TBC.
I am the AIDS – patient who regrets his unsafe sex in drunk and desperate times.

I am the many lives I touch.
I am my thirty eight year old skin that carries all these segments of our world.

I am. We are the glue, at least.
At least, a beating heart holds all of this & all of us together.

I am the way my cup of coffee seems to pull and stretch my skin.
I am the hospital deep down in the rural Eastern Cape where nurses sing their early morning prayers before the many patients enter.
I am the doctor, saying she doesn’t have the experience, nor the means to help my bleeding body.

I am this endless list.
I am the deep desire for some purification.

I am my chest, holding some sacred space for that desire to stand up straight again.
I am my right hand, ten active fingers and my left foot.
I am your long kiss, drowned in early morning smells.
I am the way you hurt your body.
I am the the way you’ve filled the air in desperate times with harmful, poisonous words.

I am this endless list.
(But) At least I am, I am!

I am the silence in between your words.
I am the big, cold fridge with Castle light, Black Labels and Amstel beers.
I am the slow walks through my sleepy hometown.
I am the father, thinking he will get rid of HIV by raping his six months old baby girl.

I am confused.

I am. At least, that is a fact.

I am the prayers for the rain. 

I am the catholic holy water, sprinkled on her African painful back for seven days in a row.
I am the church bells, minarets.
I am the garlic in the Turkish meatballs that kept me awake, one night in Istanbul.
I am the fights with all my selfish teachers.
I am the tenderness that radiates from all her tiny baby fingers.

I am the way I don’t invent any of this.

I am, we are these facts.
One fractured, broken world.

I am, we are, somehow, the glue.

I am the contrasts of our dreams, our nightmares.
I am the New York city flat, too small to store the fancy bike.
I am Parisian subways, smelling like cold, sour sweat and urine.
I am the many books, unsold.

I am the way this list goes on, & on.
I am pealed, cut and fried potatoes, waiting to be eaten.
I am that special baby smell.
I am my hunger for redemption, truth.
I am my small white lies.
I am the improvisation session without end.
I am the rusty saxophone.
I am the laughter, responding to your silly jokes.
I am the YouTube channel that I forget to Google.
I am the unexpected sexual encounter with the soccer street artist.
I am the phone numbers, email addresses that I forgot to memorize.
I am the angry, bitter letter, sent more than ten years ago, that I regret.
I am the playful break.
I am the endless list.
I am my memory that stores, withdraws, receives.
I am the deep blue ocean.
I am your lack of food.
I am the bottle of champagne with pieces of real gold that we drank in the Parisian gallery.
I am the toothpick that serves it’s purpose well.
I am the fresh, new canvas, waiting for the paint.
I am her anger because we had sex before our marriage.
I am the way I never want to leave you.
I am the urgent hunger of our baby girl.
I am the change.

I am the riots, burning tires, in the Transkei.
I am the goats that cross the streets.
I am the car that needs to take me home.
I am the broken, dirty window.

I am, at least I am. Because we are.