I don’t know who I am.
Behind the scenes,
a chameleon in costume.
Dresses of armor and eyeliner sharp like a knife,
defend me from tender hands.
Thorns strangle the rose.
Sweet smell turns sour.
I would rather cut the flower down,
Sickly brown and wrinkled in the pages of a tome.
Can I call a rose by another name?
Paint the petals with Amazonian clay.
A rose is not a carnation,
nor is it simple baby’s breath.
Call me gorse.
Despair is my milieu.
I hide behind my walls.
Flamboyant neon paints the bricks.
Too much noise, too much color;
It only serves as a distraction from points of weakness.
The citadel within crumbles;
the stoic stones litter the ground,
yet there is elegance in the destruction.
The cobwebs intricately decorate the darkened corners.
I am not a rose, nor gorse.
I am not thorn.
I am not gaudy décor.
I am not the impenetrable walls.
Am I strong as the winds of a hurricane?
Am I as warm as a cup of tea?
Am I as pretentious as they proclaim?
Am I as solemn as the raven, whose color matches the blackness of the night sky?
Am I just a contradiction?
I do not know who I am.
I am trying to know.