Reflections, All

There are stories inside of us:
secrets and
desires and
memories and
fantasies
piled up
and up
and up
and up.

All of them mirrors
all sizes, shapes, designs.

I take one out and
turn it over.
Dust it off and
peer at the reflective surface.

What does this one say about me?
What does this one mean?

I am an Echo of
something that happened

once.

So I write and
write and
write and
write.

Small poems.
Stilted sentences.
Rambling stories.
Reflections, all.

I am Narcissus
looking at himself
watching himself
look at himself.