The Tent

by Margaret Atwood

That was before I discovered the virtues of scissors, the virtues of matches.

I adored you, dozens of you, but what were your names?

Whose life am I living? Whose life am I failing to live?

I’ll encourage them indiscriminately, whether they deserve it or not. Anyway, I can’t tell them apart.

It’s because no one will believe what they say.

It was all the mother’s fault, if you ask me.