Other Halves

I argue with myself

Like a quarrel with a spouse.

Sometimes bickers and snarks,

And other times it seems reconciliation is so implausible

As to prevent my sanity altogether.

I want to live with myself comfortably,

Companionably.

To be bored or tired with myself

Is heavy with shame.

I am pressing out

The cracks and bubbles

In myself,

The ropes and fabrics

That patchily hold me and grow into a new mold.

But I want some wild,

Some harlequin rag and bone shop of my heart

To be there still, expressed, known to me.

Is that pride?

Wanting every aspect of ourselves known, or shown?

Reconciliation of what I am, and what I may be,

And how to use myself in this world I’m in.

I want my root to feed my crown,

And feeling unfit to wear myself is a bitter, sickening

Tripey sort of sauce to put on life.

To refine and express the best of ourselves

Is a dance with steps

Which shy me further.

Are they known, or learnt?

I believe in both, and don’t know

How to make them sisters.