I Don't Even Know

I don't know who I am any more,

Not the bed I lie in,

Not the clothes on my back.

I don't know who calls me for breakfast,

Not why the mother shouts for her son to put on his socks,

Not why the boy, maybe aged seven poses in a full-length mirror.

I don't know how I got to this building, when a second ago I was in that bed,

Not how I wear this uniform so commonly,

Not how a shoulder bag hangs, full of books I couldn't pronounce.

I don't know, even, who I am anymore,

or how I changed,

or how you could leave me.

But I know I don't want to know you ant longer,

because the memory pulls a trigger to my brain.