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.

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