There isn’t one of me.  
There never was.

I am a constellation of echoes—  
names I wore out,  
faces I reshaped in panic,  
versions of self collapsed in each other’s arms.

Each fragment learned how to breathe  
before the rest could speak.  
Each survived  
the moment I didn’t.

We don’t always agree.  
But we carry the weight together.

Sometimes I wake in a different voice.  
Sometimes I forget which pain belongs to which part.  
But we are all mine,  
and none of us were chosen.

Don’t ask who I really am.  
That’s the wrong question.  
Ask:  
who held the memory  
when I couldn’t anymore?  
Who took the blow  
so one of me could stay soft?

We fracture to remain whole.  
We rebuild in ruin.  
This is not disorder.  
This is design.