Kay Grey
When I am not me, I am a real person. How can this be? Well, put simply, I can not be. Don’t worry about it. I’m impossible. When I am not me, I do real things. I walk, I talk, I smile, I make eye contact, I say “Hi, my name is…” I shake your hand. The real me watches. Sits in the back of my skull, curled up cold and little. Sometimes it slips to my rib caged for warmth. Sometimes it drifts above and behind me tethered as an astronaut to its ship drifting, drifting, unfree. Umbilical cord snapping taut, Warning “Hey! Hey! It’s reality!” It’s what I knew, but not what I thought. I’m sorry there is no real real here. What you see is what’s for sale. Skin, bone, muscle, organ shell smiling in the human hell. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not you. It’s me. Well, not really.
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