What is the person?

I fall apart and it makes a mess.

I waste effort upon effort trying to contain this collapse,

Each one fails, with each effort I fail

In efforts that extend my mess.

 

Gathered in pieces I try to put myself back together.

Without better instruction, I start from memory

I think back to the beginning to identify my old motives

And progress orderly from there to rebuild the reason of my being

But between what each second memory can be to the first memories

Another inarticulate gap opens up and, as messy as the rest of them, compels me to say

A person will not be the things they remember about themselves.

 

Fallen apart, I have made a mess.

I waste effort upon effort trying to contain the collapse,

Each one fails, with each effort I fail

In efforts that extend my mess.

 

Surrounded by pieces I try to draw myself together.

Without better evidence, I start outlining a shape

I take inspiration from the form of the fullest person next to me

And fill myself back in as compactly as I can according to them

But the mould stagnates against the containment and the ex-machina stitchwork gives

The emptied suit gales about from messy corner to messy corner in a bigger mess that now says

A person will not be the space that keeps them to themselves.

 

Fallen again, messier than before.

I waste effort upon effort trying to contain the collapse,

Each one fails, with each effort I fail

In efforts that extend my mess.

 

Divided in pieces I try to rethink someone together.

Without better comparison, I start questioning the self

I set my eyes on two people having their conversation

And listen to their differences and watch for their differences

But the back and forth does not relent and they joke all the same

The distance I was expecting to see instead shows me my gap to their proximity:

A person is more together in a people than is a person by a person’s self.

 

Constantly falling apart, I make such a mess.

I waste effort upon effort trying to contain the collapse,

Each one fails, with each effort I fail

In efforts that extend my mess.

 

Made up in pieces, I try to leave myself alone.

Without better distraction, I start overlooking my mess

I focus on fragments of speeches and unused promises beyond my site

And think about how everything might look if futured in such a mess

But the question of a new time forces me to a sudden return

The distances that have taken place in me and the disorganisation they mean plead with me

Surely the future of any mess has so far been in the present of every trial unto its opposite?

 

Fallen apart that much further

To the size of a mess that is now claiming the future

I make effort upon effort to see it all back together

And fail again

And so fulfil it

Give it its future

 

It becomes a mess of a mess and so finally I have to ask:

Could this be the person, after all?

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