Yours Truly, Nobody

You think I'm cocky —

and I won't lie.

I am.

For a head that houses

a thousand voices and one,

from self-doubt to self-flagellation,

from self-criticism to self-sabotage —

each peddling their sermons,

convincing the skin

that misery is the only fabric that fits.

For a head this crowded,

cocky is a camouflage —

abrasive loudness as distraction

to escape the claustrophobia.

You and I both wear camouflages.

The only difference is —

you call yours, humility.

You think I lack empathy —

and I won’t lie.

I do.

For a life that wrinkled

before the anatomy could adult —

from being not enough

to being too much,

from being a bland nobody

to being a complex somebody —

each trading their horror stories,

convincing the flesh

that disgust is all that’s deserved.

For a life this contradictory,

apathy is second habit —

a dulling, necessary anaesthetic

to survive the dissonance.

You and I both grew fresher pretenses.

The only difference is —

you call yours, compassion.

You think I'm reckless,

and I won't lie —

I am.

For a being that flinches

at permanence,

at expectations dressed as timelines,

at hope disguised as trapdoors —

Recklessness becomes resistance

against a life that punishes planning.

You and I both are both faceless escapists.

The only difference is —

you call yours, evolution.

You think I'm detached,

and I won't lie —

I am.

For the bones that felt too much,

too fast,

too long without return,

detachment is revival

on emotions that never stopped bleeding.

You and I both numb ourselves.

The only difference is —

you call yours, self-love.

Over the years

Every time I’ve greyed a little more,

I’ve realized this:

You get two chances at life.

The second one begins

the day you stop trying

to be everybody’s somebody —

and choose to be a nobody. 

Because when you’re finally a nobody, 

nobody can take it from you. 

Call me whatever name helps you sleep, 

I'll still be the nobody 

you can't own.