If I were to make a self-portrait
and strove to keep it neat,
I’d be much smaller than I am.
I would strip all the mirrors
from all the rooms, to see myself
bare of all temporal distortions.
All the walls I have borrowed
would crumble to the ground,
to reveal the empty shell.
Then all memories of all I’ve known,
and everyone they ever spoke to,
would have to be forgotten too.
Until layer by layer flaked away—
and only my voice remained
with nothing left to say.
(July 30, 2026)
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