Identity


I hide for endless hours
while I search for myself
in the mirror, whose eyes
stare at me.

I hibernate for days
in skin that is not mine,
in bones that fracture
slowly and I don't feel it.

I retire to a dark cave
called bedroom, in which
there is a white bed
where I die alone every day
and lie sleepless every night.

I cross my name from
my identity card, I lose
my photo, I erase my face
with the sleeve of an old coat.

I forget myself
in a drawer.

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This Poems Story

Born and raised in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, I am a doctor by accident and a poet by choice. One day I moved to Phoenix, Arizona, and there is a desert I never thought possible to love. But brown has several shades and I'm learning how to paint. These days I see my patients and write poetry based on their souls and my gratitude for seeing them, silent words woven from pain and joy, love and despair from men and women who served their country. And I'm so grateful for this all.