I see other versions of myself
Late at night when the dark pushes its way
Into the edges of the room, forcing their retreat
The focal length of my room changes
As the corners stretch to an impossible distance
Are these the boundaries of my consciousness
The moments, the potentialities, overlap and
Inevitable conflict arises from deep within
These other versions of me expand the space
Filling the volume with their gaseous forms
Taking over my breath and my own heartbeat
They are from other world threads that are no more
Sacrificed through choice, laid waste by action
These other parts of me are long gone
But tantalizingly close, as if it only would take
a new choice. Something else.
I remember the me in high school
An idiot by every measure, there is no shortage
Of those measures, long and short, near and far
I failed in everything in some way, but no one
Would tell me or I failed at the listening
I feel like iconic defining moments may have
Been wasted away, like a tree without sun
It is there, but it provides shade to nothing
Except its withered core, hidden deep within
My heart was never open, my empathy never came
I was a shell of the person I could have been
And I have had to fake it ever since
Do people realize that I am a robot?
Does it ever occur to them that it is a ruse?
A lie to push others away and hide my pilot
a terribly frightened child. Cowering.
The me that should have been could still be
But to push at those boundaries of concrete
Require strength I cannot muster or request
The person that is eager to form cannot
Because of the shell that now contains it
We all are constrained by the choices we make
Acted upon by forces that may be labeled
Sometimes not. They are insidiously invisible
Hunting in the dark, in the light
Through systems or culture, assumptive asinine
Dangerous creatures of wilds explored
Those other versions of myself are victims
Themselves, brutalized by necessity
Or mismanaged by circumstance to an unequal end
That now cannot be counted or measured to
a standard unfair. Unchosen.
Those other versions weep in the dark
Huddled and scared, feeling for the hope that
Should exist and be prevalent in all things
Is this the limits of my person? This?
What I am will never be more than a crude
Imitation of a human adult, misshapen and folded
Upon itself, a unknown galaxy of time
Shuddering in its own dark blanket as
Whisps of the eddies of the distant stars
Buffer each other in the long empty above
Pulled into the dark above my bed
Pushing at the corners of my room, expansive
Such moments are exquisite of themselves
A time to marvel at the majesty of everything
That could be, that should be, that layers
a finite possibility. To change.
To change the shape of me.