Find me broken in a second-hand store -
a Savers, maybe, or a dusty corner
in a glittering silver plaza.
Find me hunched in a changing room stall.
Will I be in "Female"? "Male"? Or my favourite of all,
unmarked (as I go in life and, soon enough, death)?
Find me existentialist holding clothes against my frame:
too loose, too tight, too quiet, too much
meaning, too few words, too little time, too many regrets.
Find me wondering, pondering other people's books.
Will I make it to the finish line, my finish line,
or cross an arbitrary (second-hand) goal and call myself done?
Find me regretful, coddling a second-hand gravestone.
Here lies a dead name. Here lies a girl who never spoke up.
Or - if I came after - is it I who am second?
Find me lying feminine and styled in the ground.
These are my fears. These are other peoples' fears. These were not mine,
but you have made them so. You don't remember me. You remember her.
Find me in a mirror. Did the reflection come first?
Am I its pale imitation? I'm sorry. I don't
do you justice. I'm sure you're glorious in another world.
Find me lying in a second-hand grave.
Here lies wife of the below. Husband of the above.
I have always hated the word 'spouse'. I have too few words my own.
Find me sitting at a second-hand desk,
using a typewriter because it's other people's style.
I need my backspace key. I am not made of irreversible ink.
Find me broken in a second-hand store,
choosing clothes to hide the binder,
choosing other people's selves to make my own.