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Identity Crisis
The silence was measured in knives
slicing her identity
into p i e c e s:
An essay with no thesis
trying to piece itself together.
Oh, she was so (blank)!
A whisper nobody heard,
she dissolved into the wind.
And I parachuted into the echo
she left behind.
Arms wide, I tried to catch
and rebuild her
from inside.
Oh, how it must feel
to lose her breath to the wind around her;
To be disconnected
from her own touch!
To have quarrels
discerning her soul from the bunch.
For every time she exhales
there escapes a part
that can never be reacquired untainted.
And in this spiral of purity,
the further down she travels,
the more painstaking it becomes
to make out the swirl
from the space between it,
as she unravels
more question than answer;
more cancer than cure.
Where does she stop
finding herself,
with memories scattered all over the globe?
Where does she stop
defining herself
if tomorrow she may be reborn?
Cause the only constant
is change,
and yesterday's merely a tile
for the mosaic.
So she bleeds air
praying one day
her quest for self-discovery
will become more troubling
than what got her there...
