chips of paint peeling from a rotting core,
haunted by a past i don't dare speak of,
i sit and
reluctantly, i remember:
i look at you, i look at this
and i want to say something to you but
i don't.
there's nothing more to say
about it, i guess:
i'll watch the peeling chips scatter like snowflakes
and i'll pretend i'm not rusting, not falling apart
even though i know i am
and soon, everything about me will scatter too
as the past turns hurricanes inside me
and brings everything down with its whirling gusts,
all the decoration gone
and then they'll only see
what's underneath
a false me.