Dismembered memory.
Patchwork reconstruction.
Frankenstein reverie.
Complex soul.
Personality
necessarily an unreliable,
neurotic
kind of eyewitness
reconstruction.
I am not
I am more
I am beyond
thee
and yet faced
with quite
a challenge.
Can you dissociate,
or are you
oh so
deeply entranced
by the distorted
self-portrait,
this low-resolution
ego,
this abstract
tribal mask?
Shame
is nothing, really. No worries.
So I say.
And yet, all the while, silently
screaming:
fucking idiot,
can’t you see?
All this, all of it,
it’s really,
fucking killing
me.