Who I Am is not who I am

I am

not trying to be cliche, but

Who I Am

has been wandering around dark alleyways,

groping at plaster bricks in hopes of finding a light switch

or a door.


Who I Am

is suffocating in between phone books,

next to the iris

I tried to keep dying.


Who I Am

is not getting enough sleep.

See, it's scared to dream

about living or dying or growing old.

My eyelids are growing old in front of me.


Who I Am

had two hip replacements last month

and is still on bedrest.


Who I am

lives alone

and doesn't bother buying candy on Halloween.


Who I am has an eating disorder,

can't decide between getting too big to ignore or

turning its skin to dust.


Who I Am tucked itself on the top shelf,

back corner,

hid the step ladder.


I am still growing.

This poem is about: 


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