Self-Delusion, My Old Friend

More than once
I’ve mistaken my current self
for a teenager. 
I’ve answered incorrectly
on my official biography. 
I’ve wondered
who the hell that is in the mirror,
on the license,
in others’ eyes.

I’ve ruthlessly cut me as if I were cane,
looking for sweetness.  Cooked myself,
hoping for a square meal.  Woven myself
into doormats.  Welded myself
to juggernauts.  Stapled myself
to manuscripts, glued myself
to the TV thinking I might
be better off inside. 

Ah, division,
myth of the shadow self,
delusion of persona.

In fact
I’m easily explained:
every face I’ve assumed
or been assigned,
any self I’ve come to believe
is hidden under the surface,
has functioned
as a cover
for escaping
what I am:

coward,
liar,
cheat,
lazy fox too smart to be
foxy,
spineless hedgehog rolling into
a futile ball.

It’s a lie when anyone says,
“that’s not the man
I thought I knew.”