I swim in the darkness like it’s water.
Turn myself inside out so hard I
lose track of which is which.
My fingers find another face in the dark.
I recognize it’s mine. Mirrored.
I reach for my own face but
I’ve lost track of which is which.

My fingers can’t tell the difference,
caught in the trap of my darkness.
Who am I if I’m standing in front of myself?
I start to feel like I’m drowning.
My mind goes blank except
for a scream that feels like
it’s coming from four different
directions I can’t distinguish.

I read my face with my fingers
like trying to wake up from a dream
and the dream is a riddle that can’t
be solved with known language.
I trace the answers on my skin.
They tell me I’m the one that
wears his sin on the outside.

I’m the one with the face he
hides from himself, the one
carrying his burdens on my
body, etched and exposed
on skin that never sees the light.

Who is he if he never looks at me?
He’s the half that’s all dream and air.
I’m the half that’s nightmare and blood
and I crouch in his darkness waiting to
boil over until he can’t tell which is which.