I lost my identity today

I lost my identity today.
It slipped away,
like a wiley dog
on a thin leash in the park.
It didn’t even kiss me farewell,
like an infidel lover
leaving in the midst
of a hot stale night.

I searched everywhere,
picked every star apart,
smashed every glass to pieces.

Others told me I’d find it-
in the bottom of an empty wineglass,
the last drag of a joint, the fizzle
of LSD on my tongue. I’d find it
in the puddles on cheap city nights,
in the crystal splinters shattering my nose.

Friends offered to lend me theirs,
sometimes I’d steal from strangers,
running down the street with
their identity clutched in my fist,
like a bright woven scarf
flailing behind in the wind.


But draping it over
my bare shoulders
was like wearing
a silk slip in the rain.
Clinging, chilled to the bone.

I’ve got used to sleeping alone,
standing naked in supermarket queues.
And when people ask about me,
who I really am.
I shrug, letting the labels be rain
sliding off my back,
forming puddles, mirrors
on the floor,
to watch your reflection
grow empty.