Compound Eye


One hundred,

One thousand,

One million there seems to be,

The numbers extending towards infinity.

So many,

so many reflections I see.

But which one of them

Is the real me?

Could it be the girl too involved with nonsensical dreams?

Or the one covering her face to muffle her screams?

How about the one shivering and alone in the dark?

What of the joyful waif dancing in a dead theater park?

A few of them frightened, many unhappy

There's even one dressed in entrail-like trappings.

Number fifteen's wrist sports cuts from a knife,

While eighteen covets the reaper's scythe.

Nineteen looks as if she'd been dead from the start

And twenty permanently sealed away her heart.

I can't find the right one,

The array is messed up

The runtime errors have all fucked me up.

Abnormal termination,

My mind has shut down

Error 404: True self not found.

One hundred,

One thousand,

One million there seems to be,

The numbers extending towards infinity.

So many,

so many reflections I see.

But not a single one

was the real me.