To be a slime.

 By Micah Abshear
When I was young I had this dream
where I was a slime,
a fantasy creature just inching along in a field,
consuming the grass and bugs where I go.
I didn’t have a name,
gender
or any type of true identity,
I was a slime.
Just a slime.
I feel this distinct problem
where I try to find myself,
label these murky, unknown parts of myself.
Like some fog blocking my way,
illuminated by a dim flashlight.
I have to comb through the muck
like a diver looking for a ring buried in rocks.
I hide away these portions of me
so that they might not be gazed upon by those I care for.
I shrink,
making myself small and unknown.
A mysterious and cryptic tangle of emotions
much too tight to parse.
I fear being who I am,
not for some lack of love for myself,
but for the uneasiness of the foundation I fear to break.
I know I need to stop caring,
to be who I am.
Toss the labels aside.
Rise above my ideal of myself
and step into the light of love,
shone upon me by those who care for me.
I know I slight them by my fears.
I deny them the chance
to have my head placed upon their shoulder,
given the love I show them.
I need to be myself,
unbroken and unbridled.
Myself, by name alone to define me.
Labeled not as some form of false Identity,
but as a moniker of who I am.
A given to define myself as the I in I am.
Some René Descartes fanfiction of a self-personification.
I love, and am loved.
To define myself by anything more
feels as an attack on everyone who I consider a friend.
Me, myself, and I.
A slime,
in a field,
eating grass.