Costumes of myself – A poem

An unchanging skeleton template –
The foundation of every self
Is the same cascade of roots
Mapped out in a blueprint, essential
To the unfolding of a life.

We build costumes of ourselves around the frame work,
Skins new then old then made new again.
Or new then old then forgotten completely,
New year, new me.
But the old year, old me
Still lingers silently –
Hung on a hanger in the wardrobe,
Hidden amongst the other worn and torn
Uniforms of which me I’ll be today. 

Today I may be washed and dried
With the creases ironed and holes patched
And sleeves attached, with rips repaired and
Complete with a belt and a bow in my hair,
But maybe tomorrow I will slip back into an old skin
To be momentarily reacquainted with
A memory, for the fun of remembering.
I will cloak myself in a costume of my past self,
Playing dress up in a skin and a mind once mine,
And the wrong-er it feels makes my new self feel right-er.
I will close my eyes and ignore the ill-fitting
Tight squeeze, stretched straps, and snapped seams.
For in a dance of vivid recall I remember: this,
This is what it once felt like to be me.