Zywa
Torn off
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
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