Who Do I Think I Am? (Poetry)

The more I ask the question
the less certain that I am
it hardly seems to matter
I do the best I can

to pin a label on me
that’s true and fits my face
while time undoes the effort
and steals the years I waste

As I write myself a poem
fixing what I think I feel
then hold it to the light and swear
its voice sounds too unreal —

a ghost of who I might have been
some version briefly owned
when everything seemed possible
and I dreamed less alone

Who am I then? My pen cannot
recall nor yet describe
the shifting self that’s haunting me
and doubt insists I hide