Who I am
It’s hard to know who I am when
who I was is no more
but still lingers and her fingers
stick and poke my brain with remembers that sting.
But here’s the thing,
remembers may be real or only half,
the half that lingers still but not the whole,
others take their halves when they go.
So not halves, maybe a quarter?
How much do I take that isn’t mine?
These burdens that rarely cease,
thoughts race chaotic,
the furrow in my brow ever creases.
I breathe in and out
Why am I so dramatic
I lay down to sleep in pieces
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