Chameleon

As I write, I seep into different identities

with the ease of an actor trying on costumes.

Unwillingly, I touch my fingers to my lips

though I've never smoked;

this sparks my transformation

into beautiful women drowning in fabric,

or southern farmers with sun-ironed faces,

pale roman scholars penning logical treatises, 

but I am never me.

I am everyone else,

but never me.

I cannot keep a diary.