on closet shelf
in upper
right corner
beneath a layer
of unused scarves
and ill fitting
ballcaps
sits a shoebox
now holding
the remains of me

tainted
plainness
of my unwashed
humanity

heinous stains
of what i became
before i came
back to be

painful changes
that came to
fracture me

substance
of stuff
i wanted once
simply to go
unnoticed

cunning
kindness
holding
an ulterior
motive

mode of
chameleonic
transformation
that coaxes
its way through
the world
in perfect
synchronicity
seeking self
preservation

there is a story
that i tell myself
about myself

i have
manufactured
this myth
by ignoring
what sits upon
that closet shelf

by coin
flipping
and folding
my harvey dent
dual face
mechanism
beneath a mess
of makeup
and making
new meaning
of my cosmology
through an
outward
manifestation
of cosmetology
but that don’t
mean you
know the inner
working
of my orbit

someday
someone
will tell
my story
over a fire pit
at the family reunion
in dan ryan woods
while smashing
grilled catfish
and peach cobbler

a child
will reminisce
on her father
no longer living
in the presence
of others
of who only
knew a portion
of my whole

i wonder

will she be
bold enough
to empty
my shoebox?

are we the story
that we tell ourself
about ourself
or
what others
place upon us
and hold to be true?

you are now
engaged
in the
manufacture
of modern
mythology
and if you don’t
shape its
interpretation
then someone else
will gladly
shape it
for you

and who is
bulfinch
to think
that he could
portray
your story
with any
measure
of meaningful
accuracy?

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