I have this trouble with my eyes.
I can only see myself through someone else's vision of me.
It's never a complete picture, more a Frankenstein creation.
Bits and pieces of a kaleidoscope that fit together. Occasionally.
With a few edges sharp enough to rip my ego to shreds left over.
My mother's chaste daughter wars with
My lover's chased woman, who is jigsawed with
My friends' cheerful companion, who has apparently never met
My employer's grudging wage-slave.
I bend for him.
I stretch for her.
I form and I mold and I seek out eyes
That make me feel more than I am.
But then, inevitably, I go home alone.
I search the floor of the closet of my soul
For the me that fits
And end up going with the view that needs the least irony.
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