what am i?

i don’t know to be honest.

maybe i’m a coward.

i'm not even sure if that's an identity.

the only time i ever run out of adjectives

is when i struggle to describe who i am.

maybe i just think too much.

about the past

the present

or whether or not i even deserve a future.

about fucking up and down.

about how to even determine

what the fuck constitutes a sin.

about the malaise i feel

when i notice each subtle change

in your mood and demeanor;

wondering if i’m doing it again

instinctively setting fire

to anything that has a chance

of actually making me happy.

or maybe i’m just conceited

for thinking it’s even possible

to read anyone’s feelings

when i can’t even read myself.

for thinking i am even capable

of being the cause of anything.

a prison built with my own two hands

these bars forged in wondering.

these walls mortared with doubt.

these bedsheets woven with insomnia.

i wish that old axiom held true.

this bed i made myself

if only i could sleep in it.

even the bars each whisper their own inquiries

a cacophony of curiosity

fuckfuckfuck i'm fucking drowning

in the sea of thoughts running through my head.

as the apathy slowly fills my lungs.

does it even matter?

should i even care?

about fear

about love

about the person

i wish i actually was

about…

fuck.

about racing thoughts

and rambling words

about you and me

about doubting

if it’s even possible

for someone as fucked as me

draping smiles over guilt

drowning emotions in cigarette smoke

to fucking exist

on the same pale, blue dot

as you do.

so you ask

what's my cultural identity?

human.