A Nightmare on Two Parts
I think about identity a lot these days. Some days it’s simple, a list whispered in chronological order, on repeat, a prayer to soothe soul and keep the ghosts at bay
Other times there is room and time to delve deeper
I wonder who I am exactly in this isolation
If no one hears us scream, do we make a sound?
What exactly is the identity of a social creature, draped in silks and ribbons, adorned with the language of their people, just waiting for them to read
And what if they don’t?
What if they can’t?
What if the ribbons are only ribbons
And we only have these tears left to cry
How exactly do I go about taping all these labels to my forehead so that you will see and believe?
Which way do I arrange these words so it matters outside my skin as much as it does within?
Those of us who are left bleeding, on the outside of sweet safe society
Those who forgot how to be complacent
Or were never allowed inclusion to begin with
Those who are imminently more vulnerable than me
How do we arrange our guts
so pretty for you on the chopping block
A bouquet of hearts, blood, and viscera
-And you smile so lovely
Watering your flowers
Like we were never there
And maybe to you we were not
A myth or mystery
You fancy it below your station
And who do we, and how do we?
(Can’t you hear the keening?)
Everyone around me is dying
And I am dying too
yet we are still here
I don’t even know what that means
To be defined within your ghost factory
But I’m trying
I guess I will keep trying
I hope you can keep trying