Every time I wash my hands I sprinkle the extra water back in the sink.

Flicking each finger with undeniable familiarity.

My hands will always belong to my kindergarten classroom. 

Lessons fit for a 6-year-old will

always take hold.

 

Sand bounces in the cupholders, and coins clink in the door pocket, 

Of my hand-me-down car when the volume hits 22. 

My eardrums will always belong to my older sister. 

Cautionary noise restraints will always resurface when

I’m surrounded by a leather interior. 

 

Stories I tell will always fluctuate between truth and invariable exaggerations. 

My mind will always belong to my mother's madness. 

Carefree, wild speech will

always supersede my words.

 

My hair will always be doused in 2 rounds of extra foaming shampoo,

Always scrubbed from the scalp to the ends. 

My hair will always belong to my grandmother. 

Bits of wisdom spewing from her youth will

always account for my actions. 

 

My body is, my hands are not, my ears are not my, my mind is not my own, my hair is not my own possession. But I am me. 

I am unrestrained but eternally chained to the legacy of my life so far. 

I don’t ever have to worry about my memory because my body is a reservoir.