I had forgotten that I have a face

ears

hair

skin

nails.



I thought I was a depository chasm

where others find their self-worth.



A nameless, faceless tunnel,

ridged on the inside,

that everyone has to pass through

to get to

the other side of living.



The hollowed out ideal

that everyone seems to want these days.


The cold-handed bitch.


I sat up this morning,

looked in the mirror,

felt the bump still on the back of my head,

saw what everyone else sees.



It’s hard to remember you’re you

without the aid of mirrors

or puddles of water

or spoons

or glassy eyes staring right into yours.



I still have a face, surprisingly.

According to my closet mirror, at least.