Why

Who am I hiding from? It's so impractical
There are layers to this. Are there layers to this? Is it a lie?
Am I layered or am I a liar?
Does a bloodied blindfold obstruct my vision?
This is hardly poetic

I was attracted to a boy once
I know what reality is, yet I still yearn to burn it
Why? I'm accepted, I know, but I can't accept that fact
Why is that
A spoken word illuminates the truth, sets it in stone

It's as though I'm not ready for that reality to be carved
To see my true self
I'm not ready to accept that change
What a mess

I've hid under so many masks, falsehoods, created cities in my mind
An analogy for my grief. Who am I really?
Am I the one writing this or some dramatized version of myself
I hardly know

I feel I've learned from my grief. Is that true?
Is this thought merely another means to cope with my sin, my lies, my faults
Who am I? Is the person I am the one I long to be?

At times, I feel as though I want to be me
Other times, someone else, a vessel for this body's actions
Am I liked? Am I loved?
Of course, I'm loved. What a stupid question

Maybe the question is, do I love myself
Well, sure I do. I think I'm wonderful
But that statement is so easily shattered
In moments can be torn apart and thrown into purgatory
A vapid ideation

I sometimes resent my grief
Sometimes I wish for a simpler childhood
A life without the loss that I feel had part in defining me
Is that wrong?
Sometimes I wish to be alone, the anger, the isolation
Why is that? That hypocrisy

I've lied. I've manipulated
I'm hardly myself. I can hardly identify who I am
An amalgam of every personality I've encountered
Does that create a true me, or someone else's monster?
I'm not sure of anything
These are just thoughts