Who I Am is not who I am
I am
not trying to be cliche, but
Who I Am
has been wandering around dark alleyways,
groping at plaster bricks in hopes of finding a light switch
or a door.
Who I Am
is suffocating in between phone books,
next to the iris
I tried to keep dying.
Who I Am
is not getting enough sleep.
See, it's scared to dream
about living or dying or growing old.
My eyelids are growing old in front of me.
Who I Am
had two hip replacements last month
and is still on bedrest.
Who I am
lives alone
and doesn't bother buying candy on Halloween.
Who I am has an eating disorder,
can't decide between getting too big to ignore or
turning its skin to dust.
Who I Am tucked itself on the top shelf,
back corner,
hid the step ladder.
I am still growing.