Little Deaths

—

why, that? it is the bubble.
you live in it. everyone has their own.

but why do they all
look the same?

here she is, this plastic-girl
I built her, and I built myself out of her,
and I used myself to build her,
and she is me, they say;
but she does not live
inside my bubble.

I am no believer
or perhaps I believe too much

whichever I am
my bubble is still your bubble
and I share with you because I am generous
and your bubble was destroyed in the heat-death of the universe;
so I grant you some measure of shelter

except you are no believer, either
and you have far too many faces

they are my faces too, you know.
you have to share them,
or else I will not know myself
in the mirror

here I am, the plastic-girl
I had a builder, and she built herself out of me,
and she used herself to build me,
but I built her as well;
she is me, they say
and perhaps they are right
perhaps I am her plastic bubble.

sometimes, when I dream, I think maybe
I am one of the believers