More me, less and less him.
The memories, however, still cling
like rain will always caress my face.
I live with the moments in bytes
in my brain, hoping for the slightest
corruption to guarantee this state will last.
I don’t want to again be lost to an
image, or become a mirage to
quench their thirst, satisfy
some unrealistic appetite.
Having pulled on a new skin
like uncomfortable panty hose
I felt I could be perfect in that skin
but oh the work to keep it on,
smothering and constricting.
I had shed other layers
endangered by invisibility
and although this exclusion
saddened me, I felt acceptable
and that this is how one is loved,
but for how long? How long could I
cram pieces of myself into a drawer
like all the lonely socks, lost, without a pair?
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