There’s two of me, just two
the me and the I don’t know who—
I call her Ryen, she calls me Anne
she has such strength in her ageing hand
there’s two of me, within my mind
where you take one
the other’ll be not far behind.
She’s all strength, all candor, smiles
she quick and sharp and has a womans whiles.
She’s wicked sweet, and stunning, strong
over her many men have fawned.
When the cut goes deep, the blood goes forth
it isn’t her who shrieks, that’s me, of course—
she’s all study, all pretense and poise
she is the girl who never needed toys.
I’m all weeping, all sighs and sobs
all cutting, bleeding, and memories robbed.
Where she stands firm, I run to hide
where she is clever, I’m boorishly snide.
She could have it all, if I just disappeared
but that is something she equally fears
for some strange reasons, she’s become attached
she thinks, that somehow, we are a match—
but I know better, and the blood flows sweet
from my arms down to bare feet
and she’s screaming, she’s pounding away at the mirror
she senses the horror, she feels the fear—
but there I am, smiling, though tears yet stream
and I wonder which of us is the first to scream.