Who are you?

“Who are you?”

The fat worm asked me.

I asked him which version he wanted—

the one I thought of myself,

or the one others thought of me.

I told him I was impatient.

I overexplain things

to drill it into your skull,

to make sure you got it.

I’ll send 31 text messages

just to feel heard.

Unapologetically.

Because if it’s meant to be well,

then well—it should be.

I’m warm and bubbly

a lot of the time.

There’s a humor in my darkness

that makes most people feel comfortable

because they can’t admit it themselves,

so I’ll do it for all of us.

In my head, I catch everything.

I see when someone is nervous

or incoherent—

when I’m reflecting or deflecting.

I energy-match

most of the time.

But in the minds of others,

I’m silly and sad—

fragile, even.

Silly and sad, but fragile?

Give me a break.

You can’t break the broken.

Maybe what they perceive

is of themselves.

Everyone they meet

is a mirror.

Maybe what they see in me

is what I see in myself—

or maybe it’s not

what either of us

should or shouldn’t perceive at all.

I perceive what they are perceiving,

while they perceive themselves in me,

and me in them.

The worst is when they are certain

and you are certain,

about conflicting selves.

How do you land a plane on that kind of terrain?

Who am I, Mr. Caterpillar?

Maybe you’re asking

the wrong question.

But together

who are we?