Whilst day, I have the name of a coquette.
Aloof and indifferent are synonymous to my persona
A mimosa I am not, contrary to conviction handed to me laced with sheer hate
For my petals never bestirred, I presumptuously don the title of a prima donna.
Whilst night, I have the name of a Hecate
The designated inhumane, infidel dame who gulps down a mush of anguish and wine
I revolt at the very concept of happiness; I snigger at the illusion of a euphoric fate.
It is at three am when I burn down bridges to the juncture of my shrine.
Then imagine how appalled I would be at his question which made me swirl my head
“What are you called”, was his brazen interrogation, “when you’re simply being yourself?”
I pondered, deliberated, with hazy thoughts I tossed around in bed
It was then I had an epiphany, my naked identity, detached from me long ago, now resided in a rusty shelf.