Grasping Misapprehension

Which is more me,
a lemon drop melting on my tongue
or spittle drying on my chin?

Which is more me,
that paper I no longer understand written for a syntax seminar
or the unconscious grammar that's in us all?

Which is more me,
a mangled, still warm, severed thumb
or a well-formed stool in my sigmoid colon?

Which is more me,
the intention to stop drumming the table
or the fingers persisting?

Which is more me,
I, lying blankly here,
or this yellowed paper in your hand?