my self split.
myself spilt.
selfish spill.
cell‑fish still.
I sat breaking patterns again,
as if the cracks could learn my name,
as if the loneliness could finally swallow itself
and leave me unmade.
did I, did I, did I?
the echo that refuses to die.
did I, did I, did I?
until the syllables bruise,
until the mouth forgets its purpose
and becomes only a wound repeating.
didn’t I Tomorrow,
or will me Yesterday,
time bending my spine in both directions.
didn’t I Tomorrow again,
and will me Yesterday once more,
the hours pulling at my ribs like thieves,
each second a blade that remembers me too well.
my self is not myself.
selfish, narcissic,
cell‑fish drifting in a cracked aquarium of thought.
my self is not myself again,
splitting like wet wood,
selfish, narcissic,
cell‑fish circling the drain of its own reflection,
a creature made of mirrors and hunger.
and still I sit,
splitting the same atom of guilt,
waiting for a version of me
that does not return empty‑handed.
and still I sit again,
hands open, hands useless,
waiting for a self that isn’t a rehearsal,
a self that doesn’t echo,
a self that doesn’t drown in its own name.
