Russian Doll
Nothing I do is my own
I’ve always just copied everyone else
Down to my accent, gestures and laugh
If you peek inside, there’s nothing there.
I made the mistake once of looking
Deep down and it was like an elaborate
Matryoshka doll trick a mean uncle
Plays on you for your birthday.
Each box I opened contained a smaller one
And then a smaller one, you get the idea.
The last box, the smallest one, came
Wrapped in glossy gold paper
As light as any professed faith.
I hesitated before tearing it open
Feeling the hot snarl of his eyes
As he watched across the room
Only to find it bone empty
Like a plundered Egyptian tomb.
Alas, this was the great trauma of my life
And I didn’t want anyone to know
So I closed it tight and thanked him
For his kindness and stowed it away
In the attic
With all the old ribbons and dusty trophies.
Afterward I began to steal from others
All the things I liked
And gave them away as gifts.
Every box had something in it
And if they didn’t like it, fine,
It wasn’t even mine.
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