The Onion

It is the me that is not me.

It's the sack of myselves

that I pack so heavy.

I invent all my look-alikes

and complain how they pretend

to be me.

 

I chose each appropriate to how

my will may be served-

how I might dazzle the dumb,

pluck pity from my foes,

ridicule ones for thier freedom

as I wait for mine to someday sprout.

 

It's no wonder my feet are so heavy,

why my face is screwed in pain,

why the pace has grinded to a slow ache.

I don't need these me's.

Why would I want thier false lives?

I've been trading my gold for thier

cheap parlor tricks.

But somehow they've grown under my skin,

mapped their routes along my veins,

and rooted themselves deep

while I was sleeping.

The irony is in the way to be rid of them.

I can't carve them out and

dig beneath thier home.

(I might illicit a temporary fog to cover them, but this lies to me.)

I have to love them where they are,

in my me.

 

I cannot create new twins

to murder the old ones.

We cannot have more of the same.

 

I must give rise to a private revolution,

a declaration of war

on myself in spite of myselves.

Step loose from these garments,

thier costume no longer becomes me.

Grow my marrow into the cracks

as it should be,

and light upon my life as a new, soft babe.

 

Reviews

[emacmorgan]

Wow. This is so powerful. Thank you for sharing something so obviously personal and profound. This spoke to me. Please keep writing

[amanda]

Lady, this is beautiful. You've no idea the nerve it struck.

[Christel Grady]

I must give rise to a private revolution,

a declaration of war

on myself in spite of myselves.

I love it! This is identity in its purest form, and the multiplicity that we all feel! Thank you!

peace,
Christel