Who am I?

I ask myself the question often.

Sometimes I figure it out.

Only for a moment, before I begin to pick at it.

To judge it.

Is it me?

Or is it what other people see as me?

I find myself chipping away as I hear the question.

Breaking off the pieces that were made for others.

Is this fear? Fear I am familiar with.

Fearful that I am not me.

Fear that I am but a group project of encounters.

No real personality.

Jeez. I don’t even know my favorite color.

Many have insecurities. Physical insecurities.

My stomach, leg hair, and skin color.

Those are some.

But my mind haunts me beyond physical appearance.

That I do know.

Is it wrong to not know?

It is.

Everyone else, so confident.

Everyone knows who they are, yet I am left behind.

“You are mature for your age.”

In that case, wouldn’t I know the answer to the question “Who are you?”

Or do you say that because I’m too damaged to be in high school?

I am broken.

Reaching for every piece I can find.

Even if it’s mine or not.

Nevermind.

I know who I am.

What I am.

A collage.

A broken vase that I desperately try to put back together.

Maybe when we talk again.

You’ll notice yourself in me.

Maybe

Just maybe.

I have begun picking at your vase,

For my missing piece.