Depersonalization

A place of plaster,

warped white shapes
wrinkling into pale
oblivion. Am I

if I am my own
afterthought
festering in a fleece
of fogged sentience?

Surely
there are eyes here
and a tongue. But all
I called identity lies

shredded, paper mache,
flaked glue. Held
together by a bruise
or two.




2017