Posts in I am Mixed
Do I assume

I woke up before the train came

remembering all the moments

or one in particular

when self advocacy was lost on my lips

dripped down my throat to be

swallowed with the years,

the lifetimes of

living in the shadows, silent.

It was there, too,

as a student being told to

face a standing group of

classmates and teachers

and speak from my heart.

Well, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

And what if I had screamed like

I want to now.

Did you? Could you?

Am I used up on


Do I assume you don’t see me,


do I never claim myself in front of you.

I am Mixed, poetryMegan Jones
I Am Not Standing

Am I a cloud

Is this what air and water

together feel like

Always moving

Do I ever touch the ground

Or only move her face

as the leaves dance

as the branches bend

as the tears swell at sunset.


What have I swallowed

What have I swallowed.

Your syrupy smile and lines,

lining the halls of my heart.

Don’t post me up.

I am not a cookie. I am not a drink.

I am not a candy.

But even my mother slurred my name,

sweet like medicine

to ease the pain of difference.

What is my name?

Oreo, if you see me one way.

Coffee with creamer, if you touch my skin.

White chocolate, if it’s hard to breathe.

What is my name?

The one my father gave me.

Eat your own words.

Go on they sound sweet —

I feed myself now that I’m grown.

Because I was a child once.

I swallowed two identities and

left my plate empty.

Now I feed my children

with my own blood and bones.

Clear Blood

I never saw myself

in you.

I never looked in the mirror

like I meant it.

I never expected you to

see through me.

Who am I to claim

one line and not the other,

when you see neither.

Who else will.

My blood isn’t mingled,

it is my own.

Can I see that and

expect more of you.

How would you know.

My Line is Mixed

There are layers

you slide by,

when you are your own

reference point.

But I am not on your map.

still you try to read me.

It is a weight you will never feel

and continue to press on my back.

So don’t ask me why my shoulders

medially rotate, caving in my


So don’t tell me to lift my chest,

lift my chin and

stop using you as a reference.

I’ve lived my entire life by your storyline,

the one you write on my skin, of my name, about my hair

and voice, and concerning the biology of my heart.

Your line is one thread leading you back home.

My line is a multitude, a war, a vast


I stand in the middle of myself

and still you do not see who I am.

Night vision

I have night vision.

I am electricity, visible and invisiblelight.

I see my own darkest night.

And I glow.

I wrap the cloak of night

around the paradox of my body—

secured, clasped together

at my throat.

I open my senses

and all the available light

pours in, filling the ground.

Two roads joined

Two roads joined in me.

And though stories are told like this,

do not forget Romeo and Juliet

is a tragedy.

And besides, they did not live

to have children.

Does woe

write pain in a different light?

Does mingled blood

change history?

Do we feed our children love

til death or life?

In your own blood

What lies

in your own blood,

that of the veins your mother gave you

and in her veins;

that of all the people who

love just like you.

I have my own blood,

kin of a chosen kind—

ancestors lost in memory

come flooding back, with arms

open and blood open to


Smoke signals

Smoke signals.

That burning eye,

the pain of one thing mingled with the other.

Burning in the arms from

all the waving, flailing.


Do you see me?

I’ve been, years, sending out

the call, the signs.

Years blinding myself with smoke

and mirrors.

And all the while, making it harder to tell

that I am who I needed all along.

Do I see myself?

I watch the moon

I watch the moon,

shifting moods or

phases, just like

sometimes I do too.


Her crescent sliver peeking out or shutting like one enormous eyelid.

And sometimes growing,

hungry, learning, risking a little more.

And sometimes bold,

bright, full, lighting up

even the dark places.

And sometimes coming home,

returning, folding inside.


The moon says,

“And even when I am hidden

from you,

I never hide from myself.”


I watch the moon.

She is herself, always.

Just like sometimes I

remember I am too.



in eyes and in mind,

is nothing like

in the blood of veins,

in the soul, the heart.

And you are held there,

in the dark, deep water of life.

And your heart is

constant, irrationally,

circulating rhythms.

Of life essence, touched with sun,

filling the hollow of bone.

The rhythms that hold you

and know your name.

I am MixedMegan Jones

The rain unearths

and heals.

How often is that the same

feeling – to be flushed out

and found whole.


Whatever I can wash away

in this bath,

doesn’t change the color

of my skin, of my eyes.


So I’ll let this rain

wash away my need to be

anything other than two halves

made whole.