Introspection

I like to look at myself

and wonder,

“How is it that I came to be

what I see

in the glass

when I’m alone

and no one is watching?”

I like to ignore

the excuses

I tell them all,

the excuses

I tell myself.

I like to be honest.

And brutal.

And cruel.

It’s not too drastic,

nothing dramatic to see.

Who else will tell me

the things I need to know?

No thought to my feelings,

the fragile mess of wires

twisted and tangled

like a ball of yarn

at the mercy

of a kitten.

You can’t break toys

if you don’t play with them.

When I look in the mirror,

I put them away.

I’ll take them out later

to examine and share.

Who can I trust

to know what and why

I do what I do.

I say what I say.

I see how I see.

Who can tell me why,

I am who,

and what,

I am?

Who else will know

even the things

I won’t admit out loud?

I know them.

I only let myself know them

when I can stomach

nothing but the truth.

Then I let them out.

Run them through my fingers.

Touch, and taste, and learn.

I explore

in front of the glass,

when I’m alone

and no one is watching

but me.

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