There is an idea that is me.
A concept, a notion – a mirage, if you will.
I am colours, yes. I am sounds.
I am oxygen going in and carbon dioxide coming out.
I am six feet of snowy pastel skin and lush red muscle.
Dyed hair, and ears that stick out like satellite dishes.
I am the embodiment of self-consciousness:
Living and breathing reticence.
I am sarcasm and quick quips,
And concrete opinions, like a paving slab of ideals.
I am a vintage t-shirt, a gilt frame mirror,
A salmon coloured lunchbox shaped like a house.
I am collar bones, hip bones, ankle bones, wrist bones,
Sexual innuendos and laugh-coated groans.
I am tea and biscuits, God Save the Queen, three lions on a shirt.
I am things I will never tell anyone,
Like blow-fuelled fights and that night in the park.
I am melodies that crescendo under the surface.
I am a headache; a fake laugh; a temper to rival Bruce Banner’s.
I am 1.96 million people in the country. Nothing new to report.
I am typical; I am reliable. I am expected.
I am a mask of sanity that is about to slip.
I am behind me,
I am not entirely what you see.
There is only an idea of me.