my hands remain soft.
My hardships were always internal.
If the child I was could see me
as I stand today,
I doubt recognition,
for I've shed my skin
and myself
as often as I've
filled and emptied
my lungs.
I've left a trail of
existential breadcrumbs
behind me as I've wandered,
never realizing
I cannot follow them back
through time.
With every persona I shed
I feel my heart rendered
bare and exposed once again
as it tries frantically to scar.
I wonder how many graves
are filled with the
multitude of entities
I used to be.
If I lacerate my heart
and count the rings
I may finally have my answer.