The savior The perfect partner The dominant The free spirit The fiancé The parental substitute The anarchist The sweetheart The nice guy All of these aspects of myself Yet none of them are fully me These are the roles I've fallen into In order to match my various partners And though all of these may be Different components of me None of them feels quite whole I do not feel whole
All of these personalities Exist on a spectrum of time and space None interacting with any others Each signifies a distinct point in life Each has its own home It's own experiences Attitudes and viewpoints Behaviors and habits
Yet what do I do when Two of my contextualized selves Decide to overlap? When my ex who knew the fiancé Moves back to town where I live As does my person Who's heard stories of the others But who only knows the nice guy
How do I begin to heal when I do not understand what is real And what existed solely for others? How do I continue to grow When the fiancé is fighting restraints And the nice guy is exhausted The sweetheart does not exist And the anarchist screams for revolution?
They seem to be fighting each other Just to have a chance to breathe A chance to take the wheel A chance to control "me" Yet who even am I? Are all of these selves fabricated Or are they hyperbolized aspects of me Connectable like puzzle pieces Into one beautiful picture?
The problem is The picture I see is not beautiful I'm trying to be nice to myself But all I see and feel is darkness I am an abomination An evil person who cannot be trusted A dark soul inhabiting an empty body A person who is not a person A human with a lack of self It's almost like I'm not even alive But even death would be a relief So I can finally end the confusion And stop hurting people along the way
our skies appear to be so gloomy like they're always going to turn into a storm a storm that will swipe the hopeless thoughts away i used to look at life differently i used to not look at life at all but now i see clearly the splattered like paint that are our eyes and clouds the merged shapes and lines that are our houses and anatomies i know now that all this will pass by like a blur like it always does my father tries to spend as much time with my little brothers when i refuse to, he says when they've grown up, i'll miss their little selves oh, i can't guarantee i will but i do think that he does this because i've grown up and he's left to miss my little self because the people i don't recognize at reunions always tell me how big i am now and he smiles the same smile every time at them that they seem to understand and then he shoots me a very different one i've yet to understand
I was a little girl yesterday morning, With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park. I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon, Scraping her knees on jagged insults Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits Where she would push her fingers Into her throat and Pray on her knees that her lunch would Reappear like a magic trick. I was a scared teenager by evening, Kissing girls and running away from The demons in my head with voices That sounded like my mother’s. By midnight I was on the floor shaking, Back to twenty, back to who I am now Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed Something more. Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin And I am here now, Here remembering, being present and Knowing who I was Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago Is exactly who I needed to be, Doing exactly what I needed to do. Scraping my knees and elbows And pushing my finger down my throat And feeling ugly all the time, That’s not what I needed but it’s Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I Didn’t know how. In my mind, I am not That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me. I am Bumping and bruising and Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this Is where I stand. And those past selves stand Hand-in-hand somewhere along The equator of my brain Like paper dolls unfolded Through my history.
Standing on the curb Watching your other self Pass you by, waving as they pass Do you get up and go find yourself Or do you wait for yourself To come back to yourself?
A question I asked myself countless times Times when I felt like I wasn't being real To my true self Life is sometimes cruel With its trials and tribulations To the point where one has to leave Ones truest convictions To pursue a life of less substance
Thinking about the fellow Who looked like a replica of me earlier I examined myself and how my life Has taken turns to the unknown Crisscrossing into an unknown maze Knotting and unknitting Right in front of my eyes I sometimes sit and wonder What I had done with the thread of life Cause I'm at the point of choking myself With every move I make
The next minute I found myself lost In the beautiful words by a wonderful poet That I hold dear And she said: "It is the very liquid soul That oozes from this pores To light the sidewalks with our magic Beyond the distant shores It is the joy from which the laughter Of the dying is drawn"
Sitting in my apartment Later still, that same evening I got rudely awaken by an abrupt call From the police department When I was asked to identify my own body.
"Who are you to look at me that way?" My naked reflection quips as I continue to stare Defying the obvious wants of myself How philosophical, quite the Voltaire This This is indeed a fine place to begin "You've aged" I say "The coal shall not be kind" "Your hand shall be the devil"* says the man in the mirror "Your unskilled hand and your cursed mind" I sigh an exaggerated sigh Trying in vain to ease the tension But he, he grits his teeth Staring Accusing "And you can quit that immature rhyme" Jabbing his finger at me My eyes drop, as a scorned child Charcoal touches the Tiziano paper My model turns his back An act of defiance Or an expression of reality He is always ahead Leading me astray This is the view with which he, He has made me more familiar with Where I can feel in my place... **"Concentrate on the task in hand He always thinks it is about him"