When I tell you how I understand myself,
it confuses you.
When I say, I am a plural,
you look at me
the one you can see
and frown.
Inconsistency irritates you,
picks at the edges of your brain.
You cannot figure out
how to trust something
that changes so much.
You cannot imagine
the parts you do not see.
Look – here – each moment
that I swallow my tongue
when you ask me what I think –
myself at 9, learning to stay quiet
rather than say something
that would make the fighting worse.
The time you told me
I wasn’t giving enough
and I felt guilty for weeks –
myself at 4, the heart of my fear
of not being loved –
dragging at my self-worth for weeks.
The smallest, tenderest part of me
that cried when you called me “gentle”,
finally seen, held.
I bring so many selves with me
as we talk, touch in bed,
text from opposite sides of town.
I am afraid of your discomfort,
try for months to just be the parts
that you recognize,
try to be just one. One desire. One path.
The parts resist:
I try to stay and go at the same time.
I try to love you and shrink away.
I cannot tell who is speaking
and you say I am confused,
ask what I want,
expecting one answer.
It is quieter now,
on the other side of the panic
when I tell you I need this to end.
I look back and watch my selves separate.
The part that loves you enough to speak up
and say, I am not being good to you –
and there, finally awakening,
the part that knows
I am not being good to my selves.