Split Between Worlds

The person I am in English is not the same as the person I am in my first language.

One version is sharper, quicker, more assertive. The other is softer, more thoughtful, built in a language where certain words carry more weight.

The person I am at work is not the same as the person I am at home.
One is professional, polished, blending in. The other is someone who misplaces words in one language but still dreams in another.

The person I am when I go back to my home country is not the same as the person I am here.
One is too American. The other is too foreign. Both feel like a translation of something that no longer fully exists.

How many versions of me exist?
And do any of them tell the whole story?

Because sometimes, it feels like I am one person in pieces.

But maybe that’s what it means to be from more than one place.

Maybe I am not less whole because I exist in fragments.

Maybe I am more.