Having to become new; we detest it.
Pouting like children at the prospect
of having our toy taken away: our identity.
this sense of “me.” Our security.
We rebel, but against what?
Only abstractions of frightening futures
and chilling pasts. We build a mask
to hide it. So no one can find it.
No one can come near.
“It’s mine.” It’s personal. A challenge,
an embarrassment, a shame. Really,
we never change. We just complain
and refuse to accept that something might be better
than all the secrets that we’ve built.