I am Nothing, who are you?

The mask is fused to my face.

I no longer remember

where it ends and I begin.

Where do I begin?

Am I even there at all?

What was once a bare canvas

is now a mound of layered paint.

Sometimes we call it art—

other times, just a mess.

I peel dry acrylic from my eyes,

trying to see what’s underneath.

Like Theseus’ ship,

I’ve been rebuilt piece by piece,

and I can’t tell anymore

which part was ever truly me.

I confuse coping for identity.

But perhaps there's a beauty to the faceless,

a bit of bravery in the nameless,

shifting, shedding, shapeshifting

until I am transformed unrecognizable.

Who haven’t I been?