The Stranger

I looked up and didn't know who was looking back.

Half-asleep, the mirror caught me

at an angle I don't usually see,

and the face was wrong—

not my face,

or my face from somewhere else,

somewhere I haven't been,

or haven't been in a long time.

The light was bad.

The angle was bad.

The exhaustion was written all over it—

a face that's been worn down,

that's been used up,

that's been living too hard

or not living hard enough,

I can't tell which.

I looked like someone I don't want to know.

I looked away,

came back.

It was still strange.

Still not me.

Or maybe it's been me all along

and I just didn't recognize it.

Maybe this is what I look like now—

not young, not rested, not sure,

not the person I thought I was

when I wasn't paying attention.

The mirror showed me a stranger,

and I realized:

I've been a stranger to myself

for a long time.

I didn't look away again.

I just stood there,

meeting the eyes of someone

I used to know,

or never knew at all.