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What is me?

What is a me? I beg the image
But the mirror doesn’t seem to understand the question,
And it pours out the response with some puffy-haired skinny girl
Who doesn’t know the difference between love and lust…
And it is her; the mirrors me, that becomes imbedded in eyes,
The image of… well I don’t know, what do you see me as?

But it’s the inner me that makes me think, think, think and cry out words
Like ink stains on ripped up paper
smoldering in the back of a makeshift fire that confusion burned
into soft star formations that seem so obvious… in appearance.
And only in appearance.
I wish to be that easy,
To not force myself into the gritty pits of mixed soil,
Old and new blossoming blankets of seedlings.
Am I the foundation or the growth? The result? Or the child?
Who is a me?

And you tell me who I should be, but it tastes sour
Like the chunks of lemon that get tangled in between my teeth
From what was once previously sweet home-made lemonade
Crafted from the daring juices that squirted out of the
Mixed lies and your sugar sweet ideas of me.

It feels as though my life is a mix rather than a choice,
They may mingle so well, daring tastes of this and that
but there are…
Is and isn’t and ares and aren’ts and I may be trying to
Distinguish between the appearances and the insides,
And the stars and the heavens,
But the me isn’t the words you have built me up to be…
Even if I am still finding the real me. I refuse to be yours.



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