Chameleon

by Mohammed Hussari

 

I am a chameleon whose skin will be true to whatever moment I’m in,

but can change in an instant.

 

I will wear a new personality like a suit of flesh,

because even if my lips can’t smile under the weight of this mask,

seeing other’s foolish belief of my guise,

my cleverly crafted secret,

is satisfying in a way that happiness cannot supplant.

 

I will amputate my own limbs and suture on new ones,

delicately moving the needle

in and out,

in and out,

through indigenous skin into foreign skin.

 

I’ll change the way I move to keep pace with my environment

and after that I will keep pulling hairs, and parts,

one by one,

cell by cell,

mixing and matching,

changing and shifting,

twisting and contorting

my body in ways that should break me.

 

But I’ll push through the resistance,

the defiance in my muscles and joints as they scream

against the unnatural movement of my body,

fighting against the pressures that tear me apart.

 

I will even bite my tongue to keep myself from shouting

because the audience is waiting.

 

In this dark circus, they revel in each of my metamorphoses,

and stare in adoration at that ever changing protean on the stage.

They cheer for those transformations, their eyes fixating on the dark pools of blood

that gather below severed limbs and gouged eyes,

and they readily live in the moments

when I pull out my organs for replacements.

 

They see the needle,

in and out,

in and out,

from foreign skin to foreign skin

 

And I love it.

 

The way I can fool anyone into thinking I am someone wholly different,

the way that I, the master of deceit, can be caught in no lie.

 

I am an actor of the highest degree,

a manipulatory and a shapeshifter.

I am a chameleon,

born with the ability to hide in my environment,

and be just as everything around me wants me to be.

 

Like a modern day Frankenstein

I will take parts of myself off

and attach new ones, because that is the way I am wanted.

 

And it is in those days when I look in the mirror that I feel my worst.

Because no matter how intensely I stare at my reflection,

no matter how hard I look.

I can never find a single aspect of my original self that has been preserved;

All that I see are stolen limbs, and stitch marks.

In the most agonizing moments I feel terrified,

terrified that I am hiding in the skin of another,

terrified that I am trapped in this heavy suit of flesh,

which clings to me despite my efforts to tear it off.

And I am terrified that I cannot find where I begin

and where the stitch marks end.

 

But it’s fine.

 

You see,

they call me the chameleon.

They call me the shapeshifter.

They call me the Chimera.

They call me the butcher.

 

But worst of all, they call me  “unique”.

 

And yet, It’s okay.

 

It’s okay because the audience’s attention remains fastened on me.

It’s okay because the spotlight has never shone brighter.

It’s okay because I am centerstage.

 

For now, I am the show to see

and I’ve never been grander.

I am the chameleon,

and it is okay.

 

It’s okay…

 

It’s okay…

It’s okay…