You are the moon’s shadow,
frosted with mildewed grit,
unwritten words and dirty looks.
Grasping for mementos of identity,
you hang on the edges of personality,
memories clinging like bits
of dime-store wall-art to your collage-life.
Muddling through never felt so good.
Reading the same book over and over,
making routine love with your socks on,
letting the laundry molder cheerfully in
cornered baskets, reeking of mediocrity.
Truly being self-aware only leads to hurt,
stubbing your toes on overflowing ashtrays
of bad habits and double-standards.
There are inevitable moments of crystallization,
when you know with frozen lungs that
the only thing holding you together is
a tenuous attraction of atoms, your own
personal Hiroshima waiting to happen:
there is no way to know
who you are at any given time.
I know the feeling – the collapsing sensation
in the center of your body, an accordion
dustily wheezing shut. It is the instant
you are living someone else’s life,
when you almost lean over to kiss the wrong lips –
the breath when you find we are all
fish in a splintered mirror, countless refractions
of a thousand broken scales,
drowning in glass, choking on air.