The books are decorations
only covers, gold-leafed
light and empty, my legacy
in attic racks

I would laugh at it
if I didn't cough
of the dust (to dust)

There's a paper inserted
torn off the certificate
of a birth

A secret. I have been legitimized
Made real with a stamp
I live under a false name

It feels like dying
of the question what
name I would like and what

would it change? This official
document erases my name
I will always think:
It's not who I am