on living alone to heal or whatever

I keep trying:
I cut myself fruit
and never eat it.
The ego death following
an unanswered text,
as Narcissus looks
into the water and
sees no reflection;
so I, too, ask the Self
daily if it exists,
and I discover
not one but many
fractured shadows
vying for the limelight
or at least to be let out
on a walk
on a leash
on a sunny day.
If I’m no more than animal
in your eyes,
dolled up in cheetah print
and red lipstick,
grotesquely bound and heeled;
if I’m neither mother
nor whore,
but some perfect combination
of both behind your eyelids,
then what’s the point
of eating enough
to keep me strong enough
to get out of bed?