Who Am I? (I Asked for the Billionth Time That Week)

Broken into pieces again,

All because someone might be for me.

How strange. All these thoughts and dreams

And desires and love. I’ve taken myself apart again

And wonder who I am; all these pieces confuse me.

You look like a you; I look like nothing.

It frightens me. I feel the yearning, the envy,

The could have, should have, the forever empty,

The inside self, the me. What troubles me is that I thought

Meeting someone like me would feel like pure catharsis,

Like I’d finally feel understood, and could share myself,

Like I could feel and be something but here I am,

Left with nothing but that jarring feeling: I feel robbed—because

You were able to feel your catharsis, to share your truth, to feel and be.

I was only a background character in your show, you stole

My words, I could only nod and relate and partially feel you,

And say things like “I agree” but really that was it.

I like you—maybe—but when all is said and done, I’m still

Left alienated and stuck with the dreaded “who am I” all over again.

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This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective diary entries, called “Grimoire of a Weird Person II”.