my multiple selves

i wake up every day
my eyes glued together
my bones bare
it is hard to shake out of sleep
and jump out of bed
when my bones and i
keep bumping into each other
it is agony

i am cold because of them
they are bare because of me

i refuse to take my multiple selves to bed
i need a break from them
and my dreams demand that i am alone

so each night,
before i go to bed
i strip my-self
of all my selves

they stall, they shout, they say, ‘please.’
claiming they are the true self
their resistance is futile,
i tell them

they are all me
but i am none
as i slide them off
one by one
from head to toe

my multiple selves
all crinkled out
performing the many acts
since early morning
this and that
it is never ending

so i show them some love
iron out their creases
whisper how proud i am
as i hang them in the closet
dark like the ocean

sighing to my no-self
as i lock them in

and i lie in bed
empty of all performances
any selves
it is just i
and
i am nothing

as i glue my eyes shut

so i am blind to myself

so you can see me

and i dream at night
of places that don’t exist

of realities that aren’t –
of possibilities that feel real
and i see you
and you are me
and we feel like home

and
when i wake up
i cry

so the glue can melt

then, every morning,
i cajole each of my multiple selves
out of the closet
to join me

and some mornings,
they are upset,
throwing themselves
at me
and my bones grunt

so i
remind them
we have performances to keep
people to please

as i zip up my multiple selves
my body warm but heavy
my bones cackle, under me, us.