Monday, January 22, 2007

When You Sleep With Yourself

At first myself didn't want to sleep with me. Myself had more letters, for one, and always occurred in more elegant sentences, fancy places me wasn't allowed to go. Additionally, the writer never was sure whether me should be invited -- whether it was John and me went to the score or John and I -- in which case, I made the country club and me didn't. Myself always announced itself to the room, desiring others to fawn over its six characters, oddly debonair, end-rhyming with shelf (of awards) and not much else. Me, on the other, had two puny symbols, absurdly simple, rhyming too commonly with pee, wee, and fee. I think it was their differences that finally attracted them. Me was mopping up the paragraph, the janitor of the party, and myself noticed its hard, compacted meaning. They kissed in these lines, made love before a question mark arrived to ask what would form from their union. That's the story of you, who I'm writing to, who needs to know every being is made of divided selves that love and hate each other, that wish to die, that yearn to be born.

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