A-more-phous

I exist best as an abstract idea.

I am: innocence, rebellion, grief,
Ennui, solitude, thrill. My arms
And skin are scaffolding hiding
The shapelessness of what I am,
In essence, in truth,
In nude.

There is nothing in these faux
Bones but ashes glued with
Dead blood cells. I am not my face
Nor my feel of touch. I am soul,
The most distilled version of
Soul. That is the only way
I can ever know myself,
A formless abstraction,
A congregation of all 
Things loved and despised
And felt and not felt.
Not a mirrored reflection,
Not even seen.