Who am I when no one’s watching?

Perhaps I’m the narrative of my mind,

Crafted by the viscous mold of trauma,

Or the wickedness of humanity,

Fleeting in its existence, a blight,

An all consuming disease,

I could be the wretchedness of desire,

A lust which permeates deep in my soul,

Must I always sabotage myself?

I am the pretender,

The damned,

The rotting flesh that nurtures soil,

The bone which shines,

Must I die so many times to change?

To recreate myself anew?

No one’s watching,

So I crumble to dust.