Who am I

but echoes of a thousand voices

nailed into skin and sinew

a puzzle of purloined phrases

with half-remembered smiles

some warmth of hands

I don’t recall

but still feel

am I that laugh

blurted from a stranger

on a clattering winter train

I say “sorry”

shaped by a scolding

from a childhood teacher

this tilt of my head

might be mine

more likely

knowing me

I stole it

from someone

who once loved me

I want to think

I’m singular

my own constellation

but less romantic

is that my

galaxy whirls

in some other’s

spinning universe

more of a library

shelves crowded with

pre-loved stories

even my rebellions borrowed

those bands followed

their voices loud

shouting in my chest,

daring me to be free

while I dance

to some other’s dots

and manifesto

uniqueness

that artful reassembly

of all that isn’t

every thought

each breath

a remix

of someone else’s song

badly sung