The self you shattered went hiding in its scattered pieces. Crawling desperately beneath bookcases and bed frames, seeking salvage in the depths of dark corners, trembling in fear of the wicked force which separated the many from the whole. A child with broken limbs, too afraid to close her eyes. Images of horror overlain the waking world.
How do you go on?
A body writhed in pain, contracting around the empty space where self once dwelled, which nothing inhabits now.
All that remained escaped upon the final blow.
In the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, under sulfuric yellow lights. Toxicity abound.
You were all those dreams of drowning and of neon and of mud.
But who are 'you' anyway?
If I met you again I would be inclined to say, "You must have me confused with someone else," and, "I don't know who you are",
because both statements are true, even if they're not entirely.