I spend most days wishing I was someone else.
And consistently
I betray myself.

I trace the lines of my own face,
And recognize nothing;

The blanks upon my pages,
Remain empty

And I fear discovery.

Habitually,
I talk low
Of myself,

And see no symphony-
No glory in my own eyes.

Gorgeous faces surround me
And I can not breathe from the feeling
Of
Inferiority.

And the only place,
I've ever felt home-

Is in between the pages
Of
Dickinson-

My quiet retreat.