I might as well be an owl

My emotions are at least consistent, forming as easily as a river flows. Every little thing that bothers me starts a fire, and I keep them all in jars, until they're so hot that it hurts to hold them. I stack them on shelves and it's like when I cry, I just want to put these fires out. But my eyes have found themselves to be like California. California, that sent so much water across the nation, that it has none left for itself. Lonely and dehydrated, but I'm so tired that I can't lift any water to my lips, and I've become a cycle. Who. Who I am is irrelevant when it comes to existentialism. Who I am is irrelevant when I look in a mirror. Who I am is irrelevant until I feel like it isn't, and I doubt I'll ever feel that way again. I am a boy at war, a monster with a thousand faces, a mannequin modeling in a clothing store, screaming what it wants to appear to be but is truly just a blank canvas. I bite my tongue, not because I feel sad or awkward, but because at every moment I am awake I am holding back words that will land like a punch in the face when they fly out. I am so angry. I am a one man riot trying to destroy the universe so that no one will ever ask me to tell them about myself again. I will burn personality quizzes. I will blind psychologists. I will tear apart nation after nation and I will opt out of every ethnicity check box question. The truth is that I wasn't anything before this depression but a child that liked coloring and eating sweets, and now that I am coming to the end of the road, I have no idea how to be anything but sad. I might as well be an owl with how many times I've asked myself who I am.