Faux

Faux 

As I sit on this couch 

which has embraced my 

broken form to the point 

of a physical imprint 

due to a couches unknowing memory. 

We chat about my recent thoughts 

of climbing the mortal coil prematurely, 

anxious rants about fears I’ve created 

memories of ghosts I turn into literary monsters. 

I realized how closed I was. 

And how I unknowingly knew 

this flood was in me. 

Maybe my fear of falling 

isn’’t from the fall of my body. 

Just knowing how I wonder 

with tempting curiosity 

of the fade-out impact. 

As I reflect on that 

idea that this feeling 

is not some new monster, 

but a living fossil I’ve always carried. 

I wonder who the real me is? 

Is the happy creature of childish ways 

vast unnecessary facts of past worlds 

and an undying love for worlds not of his own 

a fake? a faux? 

A mere and cheap illusion?

A machine my psyche created to contain 

the true me? 

Is my Jekyll the true monster 

and the Hyde a real me trying to break out?