I’m a thief.

A criminal mastermind vying for all the affections of dead poets and living sociopaths

Watching flesh fall off of my fingertips and flutter to the floor.
Sewing on new skin like armor until a foreign face meets my eyes and smiles back

I’m in a perpetual state of identity crisis. I’m here and I’m there and I’ve be down while looking up and vice versa so many times
And so now my sense of direction has long rotted away and I’m left on my hands and knees sorting through the scattered remnants of me

And through it all, the rise and fall of an infinite wave whose name can be cleverly modeled on the back of a pill bottle, I still look down to the faded ink of a long-lost letter
It reads; “I swear I can be better”

And just when I look up to the moon for a cue on the tide’s change,
an anchor pulls me away and prepares my flooded lungs for another sorrow soaked day
So I guess I’ll stay

See, even now, schizophrenia might be preferable because at least then I could give the voices in my head a name and shed some of this blame on someone else

The only thing I really have left is my name

And even that is melting out through cracks in my closed fist because I held it too tightly against my burning heart 
Somewhere inside I always knew it belonged to someone else from the start

But I stole it.