I look in the mirror and think:
This is a person, this person is me,
That is my face, my body, *blink* yeah that’s me.
Have I always looked like this? Of course that’s my face.
But I don’t recognise that person in the mirror.
I touch the mirror, touch my face.
Didn’t I look different yesterday?
Is this what people see when they see me?
The features don’t make sense.
They don’t fit what’s within.
On a daily basis I see my hands,
Covered in scars I don’t remember getting,
And a few I can’t forget.
I see my hands and I feel as though I’m seeing a body,
From the point of view of a stranger,
The hands don’t belong to me.
I walk and see my feet take steps,
And wonder why I feel nothing,
Or everything,
I am not moving,
Or walking is the hardest thing in the world.
I go back to the mirror and I look at my body,
See it as the body of a stranger and admire.
See it as mine and chastise,
See my scars and laugh at how foolish I am.
Want them to be gone.
Think about the stares but wouldn't rid myself of them.
My battle scars.
My story.
My body.
But this face,
Every time I see it it's different.
Sometimes I’m pretty,
Sometimes my features don’t make sense,
They’re disconnected and don’t sit well together.
Sometimes I smile and the expression is foreign,
So much so that I disappear completely.
Not my face.
I have never been able to grasp that this is me,
In mirrors, in pictures, in passing reflections,
I see a girl and I do not know her.