I am unfinished.
I am not yet me.
I am not complete.

I am not who I was yesterday.
I am afraid of who I’ll be tomorrow.
I am unrecognizable.

This is not my face.
There are not my hands.
These are not my words.

I am a paradox.
I do not exist.
I am hidden from myself.

I am joy.
I am pain.
I am an enigma.

How do I know who I am
when that fact changes
every day
every hour
every minute

Do I exist as a point
or as a timeline

I am who I will be in twenty years
and as the little girl who held up
three fingers when she said
the word five.

I am a mystery.
I am an open book.
I am myself.