My skin cannot contain
identity
from one day to the next –
each sleep a shedding,
each waking a rebirth.
Will the troubles of today
slough off as one,
leaving an empty silhouette
of memories?
Or will they flake off,
one by one,
dust motes of unspoken cares
drifting and disappearing
on the breeze?
Who will I be
when today sheds its skin
and tomorrow touches
what lies beneath?
How will I choose
to create myself next?
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