upon seeing myself outside of myself.

these hands
are so strange
like gloves that don't fit.
the air
is so thick
everything tries to swim
but it can't
it won't
--something's wrong--

i look down at these shoes
all the defects stand out:
the creases,
the scuff marks,
the frayed lace.

i want to feel grief
i want to shed tears
but i can't.
i won't
--something's wrong--

the machine churns us along
we file on in syncopation
until i find myself
before the oak-box apex.

i see myself in this moment
like i've never seen myself before
the hair, the lips, the skin, the cheeks
-especially the cheeks

puffing out, unnatural tallow,
make-up covers the decay.
a scar above the left eye
the only thing
left that's real.

this body is too heavy.
this face is too wide.
these wax eyes are unstaring.
they can't.
they won't.
--something's wrong--

these hands i hold,
creases, marks and grooves i've
never seen--
trace out
stories i've never heard

who am i?
i sort of remember someone else.
i sort of remember
something that's not there.

the cogs of the machine
grind and shift,
the grief must go on,
even without me.
a long, deliberate drole.

we're released
back into daylight.
the darkness
is locked behind slabs of
mortar and stained glass.

the haze starts to clear
i start to remember who i am
i start to believe it.

my hand traces an imaginary scar
above my left eye.
i smile for the first time

because i can.
because i will.
--because everything...is right.--