the template was destined to be wrong.
It took me decades to see why.
history of mistakes added up to delusion
alien failures became domestic madness
molded by hate, anger, and fear
one only transforms into beasts
lost in translation, I tore myself to bits
inside the hourglass of too narrow days
inside the snowglobe of isolated nights
I couldn’t avert my eyes from details
heavy, cutting, bleeding into my mind
coloring the darkness that poisoned me
And then my fundamental wrongness,
was just another splitting headache.
The static white noise gathered, to be the pain
of every touch of communication
All that’s left against all that’s right…
Still, I thought I knew who I was,
There is no more shame in being wrong.