My eyes are sitting on huge rings and gritty pullings into heavy sleep I can’t quite reach. I’m looking at my skin with those eyes. I’m finding the patterns on too pale cheeks and worn out lips with the slight stain of cold sores to remind me I should stop biting my knuckles and eat more than bread and half melted chocolate. Who will I be tomorrow or today when I’m struggling so much with the how. The how and the why and the when and the should I and the how will I know. My fingers are weeping words onto all these pages full of familiar fears, resting so precariously on half formed hopes. The maybe I will, maybe I am and always have been. But echoed shadowed always by the who am I to decide?
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Who am I?
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