A stranger stares at me
from my bathroom mirror.
The intent of his gaze
as he sizes me up,
the arch of his brow,
the shape of that mouth,
the size of his round nose,
the square jaw and chin,
all remind me of someone,
someone I once knew.
Maybe he’s no stranger
but a friend in disguise.
A simple mask works well nowadays,
no one looks ‘neath the surface.
Or perhaps some surgery,
if the hatred for who he was
was too much strong,
and only under a scapel
could it be sized down.
It’s bad others can’t live with you,
sad when you can’t live with others,
but lamentable you can’t live with self.
I can’t live with a stranger,
to wine, bath and sleep,
go around my house in peace,
knowing he waits by the mirror,
sliding in view as I do.
I remember the friend he resembles,
he too is trapped in another mirror,
a different kind of mirror.
The old diaries and dead hobbies
show who a young heart once was,
where young passions were spent.
That young boy had many dreams,
and knew what he wanted in life.
It was not just childish ignorance,
that gave him self-assurance.
It is that he knew himself
and the things that made him happy,
in his innocence and self-acceptance
the mirrors had no magic powers
and he could see his true face on them.


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