The Washbasin

Building 2
The sky splits into stitches of color
and in their wake my life dissolves.
I am only an impression,
spurious and effervescent.
I hold my breath, dipping my face
and all its particulars into the washbasin.

They say I have ruined myself with good intentions,
the need to be and not be simultaneously.
They say I am ugly, unworthy, distant.
How can one object to an opinion shared?

Death cannot be thwarted, held down, determined.
When I was still alive I could not imagine it
anything other than different but death
is the same except for the reversal of left and right.
Is it her face or mine and does it matter
who beget who now that we are both fully grown?