I’ve heard them all,

the names, the numbers,

sterile classifications

that compose my identity;

that tell me who I am.

never enough, and always too much;

you don’t,

you can’t,

you shouldn’t have.

But this identity, of  silk and sackcloth,

dust and ashes,

and the sorrow of a thousand years:

perhaps again, we’ve all been wrong:

it’s written on those bleeding palms;

and those palms,

they tell a different story.


2 thoughts on “emblem

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