Who is more me?

There seems to be a problem, you see

some time ago, I think a part of me

became split with a serrated edge

of a blade, and the pieces got thrown

off a skyscrapers’ top floor, into

the throes of a rampaging storm.

Each of me, now a different thing,

calls out, bidding something the

other me will turn its form away from,

with what I imagine to be puckering lips,

painted in purple vituperation. Ignore it, and

it will throw a dogged tantrum out of this world;

pinching and pounding and screaming

just until I get weak and decide to give in,

but then the other you or rather me, gets

unhappy too, so what is it I am meant to do?

Who is it I am, which piece is more me?

Who do I placate and who gets to speak?

I command you tell me now because I’ll be

damned if I knew myself well enough

to figure this little quandary out, within

the limits of an appropriate set of time.

Please be a love, and help

a desperate soul out?