Stranger

The mailbox chrome

caught me at dusk.

I wasn't ready.

The metal stretched my face

long and wrong,

older than it should be,

someone else's face

wearing my eyes.

I looked away.

I looked back.

It was still there—

the stranger

who looked like me

if me was warped,

if me had lived

differently, harder,

in some other version

where I didn't

turn away from

mailboxes.

I haven't looked

in a real mirror since.

I'm afraid of

what I'll find.

I'm afraid of

who I've become

when I wasn't

watching.

The chrome is still

on 5th and Main.

I cross the street now

to avoid it.

But I can feel it

waiting,

ready to show me

exactly who I am

when I'm not

pretending.