I Am Not Myself

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I am not myself.

I am not flesh, blood, and bone,

But an idea, a thought,

A recollection of something never experienced.

I am not the name that will never be remembered.

I am not what you see when you look,

And perhaps,

Nothing you ever will see.

I am those you have never known,

Whom I see, more clearly than those that are “real.”

I am not myself…

I am the murderer, the monster shrieking for blood in the basement,

And I am his mild-mannered foil.

I am the thief fighting to save a species and a world,

And the creature perched on his shoulder to guide him.

I am the monster under the bed,

And the terrified little girl.

I am the orphan-turned-drug lord,

And the men who killed his family.

I am the Dragon, the cyborg, the inmate, the reporter,

The king, the coward, the advisor, the enemy,

And I am the guardian of the hanging mountain behind the clouds.

I am something of ink,

Cut into paper,

Born of the whispers of those who hover at my elbow.

I am something other than what you see.

I am not myself.