m y s el f


It is Friday night and I am drowning
in a bathtub, invisible grime coating
the tips of my fingers when they brush
against the walls.
I pick at my nails, peeling off the polish in one
motion, when I had applied and waited
for them to dry. Gone in a second,
my nails are ivory- not copper
I am sitting in my bathtub and wondering
about who I am
while the water turns grey and tepid.
Am I just a conglomeration of masks
I've placed upon myself to reflect others
fused into one immovable mass that
I now call myself for lack of a better name?
Or am I layers of nail polish,
will someone peel them off in one motion,
or they’ll flake off but
what is underneath?
Will I greet them like a polite stranger,
or would I recognize those pieces of m y s el f
and fly into their embrace,
like seeing a piece slot perfectly into place,
seamless?

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This Poems Story

some self speculation