by Emily Shifflett
I am nobody.
And not in the Dickinson sense.
I am a nobody,
Because nobody knows who I am.
You see, I’m a pathological liar.
So I can be whoever I wish.
Sadly, though, that of course means
Who I really am, is missed.
You see today I have decided
That I’m dying of a rare disease.
My heart palpitates, my liver’s fading.
I cough, I hack, I wheeze.
Tomorrow, I shall be perfectly fine.
And be a teacher for the blind,
Who is herself a bit inclined
To watching bobbin wheels unwind.
But you will never know,
For who could ever see?
Behind all the masks and words and stories
Who is really me?
I am nobody,
And yet I am.
I am everyone,
And here I stand.
The liar has no face of his own,
Simply dons the masks you see.
No features for which he’s known.
The liar is a nobody.
