Hard Lines

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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