Finding Myself

I don’t want to be stolen
myself doesn’t feel like me
my arms do not hang like this
elbows bent at angles foreign
somehow I am not me
sometimes I must be somebody else
how else to explain
the army of neo-hippie chicks
who all seem to know me
yet I don’t know them
and therefore I must be
someone other than me
it’s almost a certainty
I’ve been stolen
I am somebody who’s not me
and that clears a lot of things up
I’ve always known
deep inside, at least when I am
the me that is me
that I am better than I am
now I know
it is not me
who is this horrible person
I seem to be
but it is the thief of me
my burglar, my grand theft abductor
hijacker of my soul
this is so relieving to finally realize
the worst in me is someone other than me
it was not me in that drunken rage
who punched my wife
into unconsciousness
nor I who left welts and lacerations
across my sons back
and all down my teenaged daughter’s legs
and bare ass
also crucially true
it has never been me
who’s forgotten where I placed the car keys
my relief at this revelation
is enormous
the suicidal impulses
I fought off daily
have evaporated like morning dew
from a butterflies wings
have faded like the bruises
from so many past lovers’ faces
now instead I strive
to get this joy-riding
son of a bitch under control
but if I can’t
oh well and se la vie
for I am exonerated
and doesn’t my thief
doesn’t he deserve his fun too
maybe, just maybe
this body-purloining defalcator
is me
and I am the aberrant intruder
perhaps it is time
I relinquish control
hand this vehicles keys and pink slip over
and finally be all that I can be


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