In the Mirror

A mirror hangs from the wall
on the wall so that I
only ever see myself in passing.

I never notice the scars and
lines that hold my anxieties
around the bags carried by my eyes.

I have forgotten how bare
to the threads my clothes are,
scruffy, well-worn, ill-fitting.

I don’t remember the last time
I cut my hair. January. March.
At any rate, it’s long now.

I think I’ve shaved this week.
To be honest, by this point
I’m mostly beyond caring.

A mirror hangs from the wall
on the wall so that I
only ever see myself in passing.

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