I forget myself sometimes.

Forget that I am not just a mom, a wife, a sister, or a daughter.
I’m not just the referee of remotes, the apology police, or the kisser of boo-boos.

I am me.

I’m not just the cooker of meals, the cleaner of snotty noses and sticky fingers, the fixer of broken hearts, or resuscitator of gold-fish.

I am me.

I’m not just the chauffeur to the party, the stroker of egos, or the knocker down of high horses.

I am me.

The real me is reading books, writing stories, making art, and planting gardens.

The real me prefers the company of animals over people, and being outdoors over the four walls I find myself surrounded by too often.

Yet, somewhere jumbled in all the labels, I forget myself. I lose myself in what has to be done, what needs to be said, and how those things will get that way. And, I just forget…

to be ME.

– B. Clary


Published by sarcasticallycynical

Hmm! Let's see.I live in Texas born to two human parents (According to my birth certificate) and have three siblings that are nothing like me. I'm an artist and writer. I've lived a lot and learned a lot in my short life and although I lean more towards the pessimistic there is always room to change my sometimes too small tainted heart ;p

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