Something within me is violently pushing against me,
as if the person I am is not who I am meant to be,
as if this body I wear is soon meant to be shed,
and if it is not, the pushing, trapped thing becomes dead.
Is my body the tomb for a conscious corpse?
Am I the imposter spy in the enemy's Peace Corps?
And this thing, whatever it is, is she my prisoner?
Why, why is she chained and fighting, but I cannot hear her?
Who is this weeping woman filling my veins with tears?
Who is this struggling creature outlined by the shadows of my fears?
Why do I know her and yet cannot recognize her reflection in mine?
Is this a punishment, a curse, a reparation from a forgotten war crime?
Is this what they meant when they said long ago,
If you don't find yourself, you'll find yourself lost on winding roads?
Perhaps she was me, but somewhere along that twisted way
I mistook her for a stranger and chained her to an unmarked grave,
Leaving this face to be the one presented at the masquerade ball
when I was meant to only be a placeholder; I wasn't meant for this at all.
Maybe this me wasn't meant to be the one who takes center stage -
maybe it was her, all along, who knows the lines to the play's page.
The question then becomes, if she is the person I am meant to be,
how do I unzip my spine, undress my skin, and finally set her free?
Make that a double, and don't skimp on the delusion.
Inspired by a friend who's struggling with feeling out of place - we've all been there, love.