Where my ego goes

Where the hell is my ego?

I am suppose to be me, to be a poet, a researcher, a teacher, a thinker

and to have an immense and beautiful ego

making me going to get all those things.

Are they only even things?

But where the fuck is my ego?

I don't want to publish, don't want to be a thinker, or a poet or a researcher.

I just want to be. To be. To be. To be.

until I am not anymore.

I wake up in the morning,

all except my ego looks at the mirror.

My face, my chest, my belly.

I don't need to dress anything that identifies me,

I don't know what make up is nor how to use it,

I don't raise a flag

with the fact that I do not need to shave my legs and underarms,

that I don't care about the color of my ass,

and, maybe the worst,

that I don't know what to answer when someone, innocent, asks me:

"What do you do for a living?"

Too abstract, sweetie.

I am too abstract, though.

When did I become like this?

Does my ego reside in my abstract individual mental thoughts?

Maybe it is inside my stomach,

surviving in my chyme  (/kaɪm/)

I think about going to sleep.

I put my fall boots, I wear my tattered [ˈtætəd]  green jacket

and I go outside the house.

I light on my cigarette,

those cigarettes for which I paid so many taxes.

Everything goes in silence.

Two feet of the new snow all over the garden.

Two feminine deer.

I put it out.

I keep my defenseless ego in my cigarette.

I put it out.

My ego drops in the snow.