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It's a poem I wrote in response to reading The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

How can this be?

I see me…

            but, who I see, is not who I am.

This is me.

No, wait. This is me.

Which is the fraud?

Which is authentic? 

Am I this…

            or that?

I am me,

            yet, not me.

Is that possible?

Maybe I’m in an alternate reality,

            where there’s me and me.

Two parts of a whole

            like a yin-yang pulled apart.

So which is true?

This one,

            maybe this one too.