Excuse me, do you have a
spare self lying around?
Could I rest under your shadow,
take off this skin of nostalgia
weighing me down like Southern heat.
Perhaps I could write myself
out of this malaise,
become Sylvain Reynard
writing romance and adventure,
the latest best-seller.
But I can’t.
Look how the mosquitoes taunt me,
just waiting to draw blood,
to feast on my despair,
the dark twisting through me.
No room in my heart even for air.
I sell my golden locks for any kind of buttons,
to unclasp my soul from its self-imposed cage.
I’m tired of living inside who I use to be.