Amnesia

It's strange, to wake up and realize--
I don't know who I am, anymore.
I found the phone in the basement,
brought it to therapy
and they told me I'd know inside
who everyone was.
Because I should have some sense
who I would call Brat
and who this Angel character is,
who grins often enough to be Laughter
and who Falls, Falling, Fallen--

It was worse
--in the basement--
finding traces, but not sure what to make yet:
Racing suits, caps and goggles, towels...
And someone told me I signed my summer away,
came here to make something of myself,
only... I don't know what that was.
They showed me the record board,
told me that was my name,
that I did great things, and could, again.
It's the wondering, though--
if I was good because I loved it
or good because I just...was.
More than fear, not wanting to touch the water again
worried about recognition
maybe the realization that
I'm not the same person I was when this week began.

Imagine this:
walking by a hundred people
wondering how many you hated
how many were your friends.
How many people you just...didn't know.
They told me, in therapy--
I'll still know, as me, somewhere inside.
It's programmed.
And they warned me, in therapy--
my fingers will still know the drill.
I'll be able to open any account
I ever had--that hacking myself is based on muscle memory, now.
That some things are impossible to forget
and others I'll never really remember.
That conflagration is to blame
for every instant that seems poignant--
every pause filled with recall.
Just a brain, making stuff up to fill in the gaps
changing sides every so often to keep things...
interesting. And maybe me, paying attention
instead of wandering off
gone to look for myself.