A Candle, the History of a Thing

The voice inside me I thought I had buried returned last night.
I stared it down.  I said, “You don’t even sound like me.  That’s not my voice.”
It responded, “Does that make what I say untrue?” and I had no answer.

So I got up and did what I could to be beautiful.
I shaved, showered, brushed, flossed, gargled, pushed and sat up,
All with the idea that I will not be what I tell myself I am,

I am a candle, the history of a thing.

I am every bald spot and too-hairy hand

I am every odor and texture

I am each bump in my spine, including but not especially the two crooked ones.

I am each crooked knuckle and all of my peeling skin.

I am tired yet cannot sleep
This is not me yet it is
And I believe these lies

This entry was published on March 21, 2013 at 05:51 and is filed under Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

One thought on “A Candle, the History of a Thing

  1. That’s beautiful.

    Sent from my iPhone

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