Identified through numbers
and only a whisper of a name
that I cannot confirm,
I don't know who I am.

Ten years were stolen
from me when it was decided
that I was a problem
in dire need of correction.

For ten short years,
other people my age
were finding themselves.
They know what they're doing.

For ten long years,
I was stripped of my will
and all emotion was deadened.
I was human in name only.

For ten short years,
other people my age were
making pleasant memories.
They know where they're going.

For ten long years,
I followed orders,
unable to do anything else.
It's over, but I'm still not free.

I survived with half of a name,
a body of scars justified
by those who made them,
and a truth that only I know.

And that's all. I don't know
what to do or where to go.
I only know what I was taught,
what I was trained to do.

I don't know who I am,
but I know what I'm not.
"A Good Person" happens to be
at the top of that list.

From the outside, this can't
be seen. Today, all I am is
an empty jar of peanut butter.
Tomorrow? I might be the villain.