{Poetry}: Identity

I’m getting caught up on my International Poetry Month poems. This one was originally meant to be posted on the tenth, but because of personal problems, I’m just getting to it now. The prompt was “what it’s like to be an icicle that turns into water”.

My identity is thus.
I am beautiful,
solid, unchanging.
(Some say they can see
right through me,
but never did I claim to be
opaque.)

My identity is thus.
I am cold.
I have no heart,
but that’s better because
no one sees me weep.
(And my tears are glass,
silent in the black curtain
of night.)

My identity is thus.
I have nothing to offer this world
but my frozen daggers
and memories of beauty.

Snow can be played in,
created with, malleable to make
men from powder.
I am hard, crystal-edged.

If I spread my icy fingers
over pavement,
you best heed my warning.
Otherwise, you may slip,
you may crash,
you may die,
and worst of all,
I won’t feel a thing.
My identity is thus.

What is this?
I’m shifting.
I’m changing.
The air grows warm.
In my youth, I was hard edges,
arrogance.
I slide from rooftops,
my shape no longer solid.

I’ve lost my identity.

I am a puddle.
I am a drip, drip, drip,
then a spot underneath your feet.
My identity is thus.

-L.G.

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