Haze

A half broken mirror is the only way I see my reflection.

I have to bend low to see it, move in close to see the fullness of my face,
identify every blemish;
every laugh line, wrinkled brow, or streak of dried tears.

It’s the only mirror I own.

Without it, would those blemishes remain so vivid in my memory?

There’s a haze across my eyes and my reasonings are convuluted.

Is there nothing tangible?

There’s more than one voice in my head, and I don’t know if it’s Id, Ego, Angels, or Demons I’m listening to,
but there’s so much noise that I can’t hear the beat of my heart in my ears.

There’s a haze across my eyes and my reasonings are convuluted.
             Who am I?
                               What is it I want?

I asked my mom once, what it was like to be blind, she replied
she saw blurry, orbs of color.

The faces that blur and stretch across my own vision, I’ve seen before, yet aren’t familiar.

copyright Marie Meyers, 2016

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