I wish mirrors had ripples
I could attribute my distortions
The imperfections of my body and emotions
To the nature of reflection
Not the nature of myself
I’d see myself in a window
On a darkened screen
And I’d think
That isn’t me
My thoughts aren’t bones, and my feelings aren’t flesh
That ugly, pink face I see everywhere
The one that haunts me as a spectre of inadequate permanence
More loathsome than any nightmare could ever be
That isn’t me
It’s just the wind playing tricks