Confess?
Yes, I made it all up.
All of me that is-
whom I thought others could see
who I was
supposed to be, it was all me.
I suppose I owe
a debt to society, hand
manmade anxieties, cultured milk, hormones
and other treated things thought to help
growth by imagination and fermentation.
I coincide with these memories relived anew, you know
dwelt on the detailed fantastical, adorning
all embroidery and embellishments, lacy
fine threads that make pretty.
We are all make believe
and under cover, ourselves in hiding.
The body still
occupies us.
Painting by John Downman, Robert, Duke of Normandy in prison (1779) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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