Often,
false identities
can cover us
like moss and vines
on a long-forgotten
statue.
To see the figure
hidden beneath,
we must remove
the invasive flora,
no matter
how beautiful
the flowers
or how lush
the leaves.
Our sight
will remain incomplete
so long as
we are unwilling
to destroy
that which obscures it.
This existential exfoliation
is the only way
we might know
the self
that has been
wholly enveloped
by years
of grudgingly
or naively accepted
false identities.
Without sentiment
or mercy,
let us begin
the scouring
of our neglected being.
