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.