Who was I?
Who have I become?
I feel this whisper of an itch I've tried to forget.
Stuffing it down like ***** laundry in baskets.
There's not enough coins for this pile of socks, not enough cleaner
for these speckles of stains.
Stains that won't wash away.
Can't wash away.
Some damage is permanent.
And when it's committed to your heart, there's only so much healing
it can do, the beating will always be off.
Just slightly, but enough to notice.
To remind your soul of the December months when the tree's
spindly fingers grasped at your neck and the snow seemed to bury
you into the ground.
Like a corpse in a grave.
Don't remember that now.
You're warmer now.
It's less mechanical to laugh and smile now.
Although haunted houses stay haunted, even if they're freshly painted.
I will stay a cavern of broken dreams, even if I'm freshly created.
Appearances are illusions and I am a fun house.
Aren't we all just distortions in an array of jumbled mirrors?
Hiding our true identities from the world.
When we can peer into the ghost story and truly understand,
That's when our lives can really begin.
That's when I'll know; who I am.