The reflection in the sliding glass door
doesn’t look like me.
I sit at my kitchen table,
trying to force it out,
but nothing;
not one damn interesting thing to write about,
there is just
the man in the door
who doesn’t look like me.
The bags under his eyes are unsettling
Why is he so tired?
All he does is sleep.
His face screams of boredom.
His eyes don’t look sad to me,
like they say they do,
they look more tired and troubled,
but not sad;
no,
not quite.
Dirty blonde hair hangs below his ears.
It doesn’t suit him.
His nose is small,
and curves upwards at the end of it,
while his lips are big, pink and protrude out of his face a little too far.
He stares right back at me
We look at each other
Sizing each other up
He doesn’t look that tough
I bet
I could take him
The eyes look cocky-
smug
entitled
ugly.
He has ugly eyes,
that what it is,
not sad,
but ugly.
He refuses to look away.
I can start to see the lines on his forehead now.
This man cannot be me.
-C.H.
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