A grasp of cold air
Wakes me up from reality.
I stand by the bed,
Letting the indifferent realisation
Slowly conquer the mind,
Realisation of
What, when, where, who.
Who?
Looking back at me from the mirror
Is the familiar stranger
With the fast-growing moustache
And the terribly wide shoulders.
Oh—
Right.
I let the water run through my face,
Hoping it will wash the surface away,
Into the drain,
Out of the sight.
But again, the shell resists
Like the oily sensation on the plates,
Like the sticky glue under the removed labels.
As my consciousness runs through
The monstrous throat, the muscly thigh,
The thundering voice, the throbbing veins,
the water runs through my face. I—
Drowning.
Sinking.
Can't breathe.
I open the plain wardrobe,
And there,
Buried in the far-end of the rod,
A blue forbidden clothes.
The theatrical warning plays in my head:
"You CAN'T wear that."
Shut up.
I pick up the snow-clean shirt
And the blackest tie.
Within five minutes,
And a little bit of mental coercion,
My eyes blare—
Abomination!
And the heart screams—
Predicament!
And that's when I know
I'm ready.
I unlock my front door,
checking the façade,
Lock it—not for the protection,
But for the imprisonment—
Smile back to the neighbours,
And start my happy dream day.
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