I don’t want anyone else to look like me.
I don’t want anyone to be as disgusting and as odd,
On some days and nights, before falling asleep.
I do not want anyone else to have felt like a little girl,
Sleeping in his lover’s arms,
Being kissed on button noses, licked like mushrooms.
I want no one else to have felt like a boy, looking at his feet in a professor’s room,
Wishing for rest, and a womanly warmth,
That has been missing from her chest.
Feeling like an unfinished portrait on summer mornings,
An unique failure, after afternoon siestas.
I am not an individual;
I don’t claim that myth.
The mythical one, walking through legions of stories,
Being didactic and true.
I think I am one of many,
A tiny story
Where I am all the characters and none,
All the time and never.
I am just me
And no one else is.