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When I Was Really Me

September 3, 2009

Each time another piece. I said last time I wouldn’t let you touch me. I said this time I won’t let you touch me again. And every time is just like the last. Giving in farther. Letting go more. Losing touch of what I started with. Drifting towards this place I’ve never been. And though I like it, I hate it. Each time it’s just another piece.

Another piece of me. Gone. Lost somewhere. Drifting through the flood’s raging waters like a wooden plank with no direction but downstream. So am I. Drifting. With no direction but away from here. And though I try and grab the bank as I move away. I can’t. I’ve lost my grip. Of this. Of everything. Including myself. This time there’s only one piece left.

All the pieces unseen. Each in a different place. Left behind. One in each stage of life. And did I gain another piece with those I lost? Not a piece of my own, but of yours. Of hers. Of his. Gaining from other people’s worlds as they take from mine. In the end. I am not me. But a jumble of misdirection pieced together by a group of strangers.

And though they may call these pieces me. They are not. You knew me. Knew me in the beginning. When I was really me.

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