How Have I Missed Myself
You are so kind she says.
I smirk inside, knowing I am not.
She does not know that I loathe her.
I gloat in my subterfuge.
You are marvelous he says.
I am shocked, never liking anything about myself.
Where does this word come from?
How did it originate in his plebe brain?
You are creative, she says.
I look around; where am I?
What kind of illusion is this?
Who are these people?
You are so in touch with yourself, she says.
I wonder to whom she is speaking.
I turn and look behind me, seeking the source.
Surely these things are not about me.
Do I really have all of these people fooled?
Or is it me that is a confused harlot?
I flit away from the masses and study a reflection in the mirror
Wondering how I have missed this imposter all of these years.
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