What do I see in the mirror of a dance? It shifts and turns as quickly as the 5678.
I see the lover I used to be
flail like the daughter who was not this or that
enough.
I see what you saw in me when you said I look like so-and-so.
I see the ugly crier long after the funeral. I see a gentle girl who just wants to feel
joy.
I see the object of a stranger’s side-eye, securing herself through me, an awkward vessel. The channel that keeps me open to the magic music has become an open artery, blood spurting before it can get the oxygen to the heart. It’s quite a sight that no-one sees.
I see shapes that look like me, moving outside of me.
I see a narcissist’s dream dressed up in
nightmares.
I see a pointless puzzle. I see Norman Bates dressed up as his
mother.