Glass Reflections

 

Her glass appearance startles,

unrecognizable woman.

I want to shampoo her matted hair,

zip up her bellbottom trousers,

iron her tank blouse, but she’s

not a touchy-feely kind of gal.

 

She copycats my facial expressions

like the Mona Lisa.

If I furrow my brow, she’ll glower.

If I stick out my tongue, she’ll howl.

If I smear mint balm on her mouth,

she’ll rebel, lick it all off.

I should love her, but I don't.

 

Internal dialogue is cruel.

Voices echo cold: I can’t look at her.

Voices in denial: I don’t recognize her.

A mirror shatters to smithereens,

our glass reflections crack like ice.

I sweep up the mess with a broom.

I can’t pick up my broken bits,

don’t want a new scar.