Identity Crisis

The silence was measured in knives

slicing her identity

into  p  i  e  c  e  s:

An essay with no thesis

trying to piece itself together.

Oh, she was so (blank)!

A whisper nobody heard,

she dissolved into the wind.

And I parachuted into the echo

she left behind.

Arms wide, I tried to catch

and rebuild her

from inside.

Oh, how it must feel

to lose her breath to the wind around her;

To be disconnected

                                             from her own touch!

To have quarrels

discerning her soul from the bunch.

For every time she exhales

there escapes a part

that can never be reacquired untainted.

And in this spiral of purity,

the further down she travels,

the more painstaking it becomes

to make out the swirl

from the space between it,

as she unravels

more question than answer;

more cancer than cure.

Where does she stop

finding herself,

with memories scattered all over the globe?

Where does she stop

defining herself

if tomorrow she may be reborn?

Cause the only constant

is change,

and yesterday's merely a tile

for the mosaic.

So she bleeds air

praying one day

her quest for self-discovery

will become more troubling

than what got her there...

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