I’ve got a trifling misconception of exactly who I am,
A lingering suspicion that beneath all these tattoos
There’s just a vacant space where someone lived
But long ago escaped.
I can tell because my breaths these days seem hollow and elusive,
Faint and thin illusions of the sleepless dreams I’ve never had.
Exhausted methods of consenting to these sophistries
I’ve clenched are finally failing,
Leaving formless concepts of a person with a hundred faces,
Flowers blooming under tangled grass and wilting
Pale and vitreous, undone from lack of air.
A labored breath for no one.