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