He tried to wash away,
But the stain remained,
Like it was part of him,
But he scrubbed as if he
Didn’t want to own it,
Though in iron clad
Stubbornness, the bad thing,
Clung on, like a desperate
Child does to an unready parent,
“I don’t want this,
I don’t need this!”
He screamed inside,
With red face, with his synapses
Red raw, like the chronic inflammation
Of eczema, his cleansing rubbing
Frantic, as the tick, tock,
Tick, tock of the clock asked
Him this double question:
“Which identity will you choose?
Which identity will you lose?”