I had forgotten that I have a face
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 glassy eyes staring right into yours.
I still have a face, surprisingly.
According to my closet mirror, at least.