Versions of me

 

There is a version of me

that exists only

in a whispered memory.

A story. A fiction.

A twist of reality.

The confident extrovert

swirled into introverted shy.

The wordsmith

that forgets the lines,

who sees too many

words underlined,

for his spelling is unrefined.

 

There is a me that lives in

the white noise static

of the mentally disturbed.

His words

scream

and pour themselves

onto walls

in scrawled handwriting,

that crawls

like insects into your thoughts.

 

There is a me that

floats

in a lovebirds dream,

a sonnet sent

from a heart that beats

to the romance

remembered, somewhere

on a station seat.

 

There is a me

that throws all these

other parts away.

 

 

And is

dare I say it…

Ordinary, he just

collects his thoughts,

shares his heart,

laughs a lot, smiles more,

and loves with a passion

that burns hot, like the fire of the sun.

 

Every me is a blended swirl

of the whole story,

to get one, you have to collect them all.

Like a Pokémon,

except slightly less cute,

and a little less yellow

than Pikachu.

(Though when my liver

packed up, it was close)

 

For my skin is layered,

peel back one and

a different one appears.

I may look one way upon the surface,

but underneath there are

countless versions of me,

that each blend at times

to create the one that you see.

I share with some, more than others,

for they show care,

and have love inherent

in their words, and those I hold near,

for they are rare in this world

and they reflect the layer

I hold most dear.

The layer that loves

with all the other layers in here.