who are you?

You
upon whose skin comedies are written
in bruises and scars like graffiti on your heart
scrawled upon the walls in the language of
maddening imperfection.

You
who exhumes the bones of demons
from the graveyard growing
inside of you
the cemetery where you bury your grief.

who are you?
who rebels at the crimes,
self-inflicted, yet
cannot bring yourself to bury the hatchet
(a hurricane that refuses to be named.)

You
who has learned (to your sorrow)
that the world has teeth
and homes cannot be made
out of human beings.

You
who cannot help but idle
on the question
"what parts of me still function
properly?"