Although a face and name we share
all I can see is imperfections
of wounds of crusted-over past,
a skin that’s overgrown with calluses
and scars. So many scars
perhaps are the reason why
nobody notices the switch-up.
A changeling crept in stealthily,
and undisturbed I settled where
no other would. I do it better
living as her, it’s a sign I deserve
being me more than she ever would.
One face, one name,
but you glance back a dozen years,
and suddenly you notice you are
but a changeling.
I love the unsettledness this creates.