Fact or Fiction

At summer camp, a boy pulled down

his swim trunks in front of me.
I told one person, who told another person,
and word ended up getting back to him.
He said he never did such a thing,
and I began to wonder if I had actually seen anything
or had just imagined the whole thing.

Some mornings, I have such convincing arguments
in my dreams
that I wake up intensely mad at someone
for no legitimate reason.

When I read novels,
my scrapbook of memories becomes
photo-bombed by imposters:
Daisy Buchanan sits between me and my grandma
at my cousins wedding,
Holden Cauffield scowls at the camera
as he pins a corsage to my prom dress,
Hamlet proudly holds up
his pickle-on-a-stick at the state fair.

I find myself flipping coins when I blink;
debating what is fact or fiction;
if I actually saw a spider crawl
across the kitchen  table or if
it was just a stray car headlight
that had crept through the blinds
of my peripheral vision.
Then again, maybe it was both.
Maybe truth is always both,
like a piece of glass that refracts light
and then takes it back; a He loves me/
He loves me not dandelion in a windstorm,
vacillating between promises
and letdowns.

After about an hour
of lying on my back at Pebble Beach,
patiently waiting, watching,
as my family saw dozens of shooting stars,
did I finally see one? Or had I just wanted
so badly to watch something other than me
tumble through space?
Then again, maybe I had been bathing in them
the whole time.