Jigsaw

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.