January 5, 2016

Disguised Confessions


To you, my love, I reveal
my true self, but every time I am
in your arms, the other selves revolt,
rejecting that they are no more
than lies when you are not
here. Jealousy is a curse, but so
is curiosity—sometimes more.

What is the colour of a chameleon?

Green, perhaps, like the colour
of the leaves it so easily mimics.
Or is it grey, the dull colour of
the rock on which it rests?

Has it ever failed to make itself
invisible to the world, to predators?
A natural error presenting itself as
a wrong shade of yellow or brown,
exposing the truth is just nature
being itself, but “What is that?” I ask,
“What is Truth?”

But the little chameleon slithers
away and hides once more, constantly
betraying, unknowingly betrayed by
the sole guarantor of its survival.

Adaption, but what for? Adapting,
but, “To what?” I wonder.
Claiming that external forces give
it no other choice but to adapt even if
it is the very force it fears. We are the
chameleon desperate to know
its true colours. We are the cold,
brick wall from which it stares at me
and my intentions.

We divide the world, and give in to
those divisions, we are the trees that
burn ourselves, the water that takes pride
in its own transparency (but, shit, everyone
sees right through us!), the rocks
that sit and do nothing while everything
we know is sick of being known by us,
sick of never being understood.

And yet, my love, look at how
loudly we proclaim to be the chameleon
that only adapts! Is this my true self—
the one that has just been kicked
out by the angry and deceived?
Please, please don’t look at me like that.
You and I are the same lonely chameleon
that is now among the ruins, trying to
outlive fate. Forget about the walls,
the leaves, the rocks… Forget about
the colours!

We are only adapting.

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