This poem was slated to appear in a lit magazine some years ago, but I completely forgot about it. In the interim, the magazine folded, so here it is. 

My Other Self

When she asked how I did it—managed to skillfully
elude commitments and excursions to new places
and avoid anything that smacked of adventure—

I took her to my bedroom and opened the closet,
where I kept my other self sedated and tied up.
“It wasn’t easy,” I said. “I had to read a book on knots.”

She knelt beside the other me and touched his cheek
He didn’t respond. “He’s not aware of much,” I said,
“which is probably best for everyone, I think.”

“You’re a wretched creature,” she said and began sobbing.
I sighed and went to the dresser where I kept the rope,
the syringes, and vials, and said, “This might sting a bit.”