I often wonder about anonymity,
while I sit perched in the shadows,
never swinging from the chandelier.
And sometimes I remember quotes,
written by a forgotten no one, a.k.a. Anon,
and think about what it means to be anonymous,
shoulders hunched,
identity smudged,
feverishly typing,
cowardly unleashing,
or bravely disclosing,
sometimes misquoted.
Is anonymous a woman?
or is he the son of one,
a face in the crowd,
a most generous benefactor,
an open door to a closed space?
Is being anonymous enough?
And I wonder when they are safely tucked
behind their screen,
is it easier to release the raw truth
or perpetuate half-lies?
I stand beside my messy words,
one foot on the ground,
the other skateboarding on a star,
spilling ink and crushing parchment
into fine crystals of anger and velvet,
wherever my words would take me,
hoping they would somehow save me
from becoming forever anonymous,
sitting in the cool comfort of the afternoon shade.
© Connie Song 2021. All Rights Reserved.
