flesh of identity.
My brain short circuits a lot.
Sometimes I forget things,
And I’m slowly starting to think I’m forgetting myself.
Leaving pieces of myself wherever I go,
A trail that won’t lead anywhere,
Because I’m simply nothing.
The pieces you’ll find of me,
Won’t be of me.
They’ll be fragments of roles I’ve played,
The different people I’ve pretended to be.
You’ll find shredded skin of different masks,
Like parchment soaked in bile, that tears and rips,
A hideous ballet of decay, where atrocity hypnotizes.
The skin once glued to my face has finally fallen off,
In its trail leaving behind the red ooze that boils out.
The masks of people I’ve played– a game of charades,
It was something I was very good at.
Maybe that’s why I can never seem to remember myself,
I never got to be just me.
I always had to be someone else to be seen.
In the end, you’ll find others’ skins and cracked faces,
But the trail will always lead you to different places.
Never back to me
Because I simply never existed.
