I hold no ill will towards my thirteen doppelgängers.
Their minimal existence is a piece of me now,
Each another collected story this library uses
In lieu of developed emotional honesty.
But is a sin a sin if even God commits it?
We have all woven our patchwork threads,
Fit the puzzle pieces where we could,
Forcing the edges together in wonk-straight lines.
I’ve met a few people now who call these lies,
Who try to tear down the tapestry–for there must be
A doorway behind where the real soul hides.
I’ve often wondered if it ever came to their mind,
Long after we stopped speaking to each other:
How much of me they ripped apart,
While claiming they only wanted to know who I was.
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