The Mistaken Twin

She ran into me at the bus stop,

asked about my sister—the twin, she said—

and called her by a different name instead.

I stood there watching my heart drop.

She was so certain of her story,

so sure of who I was and where I'm from,

filling in the gaps, making it sum

to something she could believe. Her glory.

And I didn't correct her, didn't fight,

didn't say: she's not my twin.

Just let her version of me win,

let her walk away thinking she was right.

How many people see me this way?

How many versions of me exist

because I couldn't resist,

because I didn't fight? What can I say?

My sister's not a twin. I should have said

that there on the street.

But I let her neat

version of me stay in her head.