I DON'T KNOW ME

I wrote once on the walls of my cell in red crayon the color of the rising sun, or the circle of blood: 'Give me back my face'. The kanji plea remains beneath the surface, like veins beneath skin, where technicians have painted over it in sterile white.

Another mask for Ukiko's scars,
refuting the identity that was.
Another institutional deception,
an engineered perception.

Here, lies are doled out with drugs,
measured into water jugs,
at six and twelve and eight o'clock,
timed by a kittycat's tick and tock.

Before erasing the truth, ironically,
they listened to my crayon-plea,
but gave my face to a different me,
a replacement for this Kabuki .

My mask's twin, hiding another face,
continues acting out a Noh disgrace,
weeping for the endless lies,
for propaganda in Kabuki disguise.

Watching Kageko's fluid grace,
Little Sister cries with a double-face,
Thinking, if identity, like beauty,
is only skin-deep, I don't know me.