Things That Know Me

Lately I’ve been thinking about things that truly know me.

Not the people who claim to.

Not the ones who say my name like they are announcing a verdict.

This led me to ask myself, Who knows you?

These are the things that have witnessed my light and my shadows.

The cup that remembers how I like my coffee.

The unwritten journal that waits for the version of me I aspire to become.

The window that watches me think.

This is an apothecary of those things.
An inventory of objects that have memorized me,

my scent, the songs I hum, the way I breathe when noone is looking.

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My pillow knows how I cry when I turn away,
and how I tuck my feet in when the world has been too much.
It smells of lavender oil and forgotten love stories.

The ikea mug by the sink, knows the calm before the storm.

It knows the part of me that follows new year resolutions

and forgotten confessions.

It knows I dance a little brighter when noone is looking.

The Apple Music playlist titled Drive in Style knows every version of me:
The girl who stopped believing in signs.
The woman who is unbreakable.
The mother who now sings along, trying to hit every note,
because a toddler in the backseat thinks I light up the sun.

My kitchen window knows how I wait,
especially when it rains.
It has seen me be patient as the water boils or the cake rises,
and at a loss for words when I don’t pause between writing angry texts and deleting them.
It has watched me laugh, lips stained with saffron and joy.
It knows how the 6:00 AM light touches me like devotion.

My daughter’s blanket knows how I sometimes hold it even when she’s not there.
It knows the shape of my wait,
folded into its corners and stitched into sleep.

The mirror in the corner of my house knows I look into it when no one is around.
It has seen me try on outfits that no longer fit, earrings I’m never going to wear.
It knows that sometimes I stop just to check if my eyes still read like poems.

My mother’s rolling pin knows I never get the circle right.
But I try anyway.
And it understands,
sometimes love is lopsided, but love comes in different shapes.

My cracked phone case knows I scroll through memories like it’s real-time.

My reading glasses know the myths I collect like facts.
About women who turn into flames, into sky, into time.
They know how I long to turn into something, too.

My worn-out socks know the map of the house I’ve built with love.
Every tear knows a version of me that bloomed.

The drawer full of perfume samples knows the women I try to become.

Some Days I choose cinnamon and somedays Jasmine. I spray them on like spells, soft yet powerful.

My Dad’s scarf knows exactly how I hold it when I need to feel safe in the world.

The bathroom window at 6:17 AM knows how I love to shower in the dark, before the day arrives, when the sky is still indigo and house is asleep. The tree outside moves slowly like it’s reaching for me, like it remembers me from another life and finally found me.

My drafts folder knows nights I fed words instead of myself. It’s full of half-named feelings and half-baked thoughts and it accepts them as they are without a need for me to complete them.