The Person I Practice Being

Some mornings... I rehearse my own name... before I answer it. As if... someone else... used it yesterday. (mm... maybe...) I learned how to smile... by watching reflections that disappeared before I finished copying them. Every conversation... becomes a receipt... for a version of me I never remember approving. Home... home... But only the second one answers back. (full breath...) I know where the plates belong. I know which cupboard complains first. I know how long the kettle waits before it clicks. Yet none of those habits... feel inherited. They feel... borrowed. Borrowed... borrowed... Like someone left instructions inside my hands. (ahh...) Maybe that's enough. Maybe... people aren't born. Maybe... they're assembled slowly from repeated afternoons. (mmm...) Sometimes I laugh... and hear another laugh arrive... half a heartbeat later. Not louder. Not different. Just... closer. Closer... closer... I stop speaking to hear which voice continues. (oh...) If I keep becoming... becoming... Which one survives... If every yesterday teaches today's face... Who was teaching... before I could remember... (before I could remember...) Tomorrow... I'll wake again. I'll put the same cup in the same place. I'll answer to the same name. And maybe... that's all a person is. A collection of small repetitions... repeated... repeated... until nobody asks who started them. (mmm...) Goodnight... Goodnight... If you're listening... I hope... you're me.