Split personality

In Competition No. 2401 you were invited to provide a dialogue in verse or prose between two parts of yourself at odds with each other. Hands up anyone who has never talked to themselves…. Not a hand? I thought so. And yet it’s odd that when one does it, it isn’t a dialogue. ‘For God’s sake pull yourself together,’ my voice may say, but the Caliban bit of Jaspistos being addressed never replies in speech, just grunts mutinously. In the 17th century a poetic dialogue between Body and Soul was common, and I anticipated modern arguments between Ego and Superego, but I got few. Never mind, it was a good week. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each except for Mike Morrison, who takes £30.

Hands sneered, ‘Just look at you, your shape’s all wrong

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And, boy, do you have a tendency to pong!’
Feet countered, ‘Yes, but what else can we do?
He never washes us as much as you.’
‘We’re very versatile,’ hands bragged. ‘In fact,
You might call us a brilliant double act.’
‘Big deal,’ cried feet, ‘we’re clever too. No way
Could you perambulate himself all day.’
‘And that’s your limit, innit, twinkle-toes?
Our man must be embarrassed, stuck with those.’
‘You must remember how he loves to roam —
When he gets lost it’s us who fetch him home.’
‘You’ve not a leg to stand on,’ hands then hissed.
‘You’ll be redundant soon and hardly missed.’
‘Stop bickering,’ feet sighed. ‘We’re both employed
And give good service to our humanoid.’
Mike Morrison

Look at her. She’s dead. Oh God, she’s dead. Look what you’ve done.
She’s not dead — she can’t be — her eyes are still open.
Look at the pool of blood expanding beneath her head like a halo. She’s dead and you killed her.
What do you mean I killed her? It was your idea, you did this.
I