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Broken Vase
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.
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I find myself changing. Not as in growing, but almost as if I was swapping out masks. Depending on each person, the mask would change, all made with them in mind. However, some of the mask began molding into my own face. It got to the point where I no longer can distinguish the mask from my original face.