Bri'ish Cabbage

There are many "me"'s, behind my face.

I don't know which one to choose.

There are smart "me"'s, open "me"'s, and the angry "me"'s I think I control.

One of me is smart. He thinks before he speaks.

But he is fragile, and underneath, is the worse "me" I hate to keep.

Another, like him, is helpful. He always tries to speak.

But still, when I use him, he only makes me feel outcast from others, crushed beneath their feet.

Another of me is blank. Smooth, but criticising.

A durable face, she often serves me well, but leaves me feeling tiny.

Another me is nothing. They see my whole as a swarm.

They only lie deep in my head, for another me holds them captive.

That me tries to be sociable. They speaks without constraint, trying to sling jokes like pebbles, into the beach beside a lake.

He rarely keeps me empty, but using him feels wrong. She is me, but what he shows, is nothing more than a facade.

Another me tries to be him, wanting to socialise. Perhaps they are the same person, just hiding beneath each other's disguise.

Another me is little. Frail, only dreaming.

They want to be part of the world, but are stopped by the most minor reason. Sometimes he grows his legs, and helps two or four. Normally he stays in bed, avoiding you all.

Then there are the "Me"'s I hate. Those ones that hate the world.

The most minor spark once made them explode, but now it takes some more.

One of them is verbal. He shouts to get attention. He thinks nobody will hear him, if he keeps his head at ground level.

One of them is physical. They toss and they hit. Of all of me, I hate them most, and have made the most effort in keeping their flame unlit.

One of them acts quiet. He is ashamed of who he is. He shouts quick, angered remarks, to keep what he thinks is his.

One of them is more logical than the others. He keeps out of harm's way. He makes me feel the worst, and though I love him, rarely do I let him out to stop the play.

The last of them, I never free. She yearns for the taste of blood. Be it mine or that from another, she drinks it, all, up.

All of me is me. I am myself and I. But where am I, I wonder? Still it is them I cannot find.

The perfect me, who I want to be. Sometimes I resemble them slightly. I know I cannot be them, and I'm not sure if I should try.