The Rebel

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.

Our pride.