Shop Window Truth

A dirty pane of glass,

selling cheap, faded things.

And then my own face,

a shock the street brings.

Smeared with exhaust,

streaked with old rain.

Not the face I fix

in the bathroom's false reign.

Lines cut deep,

a stranger's tired gaze.

Blurred streetlights behind,

a sad, distorted haze.

Who is that, then?

All my old mistakes

written on the surface,

for anyone who takes

a moment to see.

Just the raw, dull truth.

No softened edges here,

no lie of youth.