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by Serenity Brown

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There are days that I don’t want to be me, days that I want to be Cara.

Cara is beautiful and alive and…she is a feeling. A feeling that I want to be. An emotion that I want to embody. An energy that I want to emit.

Cara is a marble statue standing in sunlight. Cara is a green-and-white polka-dotted ribbon soaring out of tight curls. Cara is a green bottle found abandoned in the woods inhabited by a small beetle. Cara is a tote bag full of books and old movies and lost wooden beads.

There are days that I don’t want to be me, days that I want to be Cara.

Cara is the smell of olive oil, rain, and wet dirt. Cara is the feeling of holding a dry, textured hand, cold stone on the back of legs, and sun peeking out of the clouds on a chilly gray day. Cara is the sound of birds in the morning, familiar humming, and clanking in the woods. Cara is the taste of chamomile tea with honey, orchard air in fall, and peanut butter, jelly, and cheese sandwiches.

There are days that I don’t want to be me, days that I want to be Cara.

Cara is standing on the edge of a cliff staring at a sparkling sea as sun warms the skin. Cara is sitting in a tree reading a book as wind blows the leaves. Cara is watching movies alone in a bedroom at three a.m. as moonlight paints the walls. Cara is falling asleep curled up as breath shifts the blankets.

There are days that I don’t want to be me, days that I want to be Cara.

I can’t be Cara. I can’t be her because she is a feeling. A feeling that I want to be. An emotion that I want to embody. An energy that I want to emit.

There are days that I don’t want to be me, days that I want to be Cara, but…

I am me.