Muse

In the mirror I see, framed like a painting a woman who mistakes face for truth, and wears affection like yesterday's shirt. Lost, confused, occasionally lying— One who fears loneliness, so she invites harm just to be seen. One who can't stand her shallowness— but in midnight darkness, a sharp Discomfort reminds her that she's none but a human— the her tale ends in silence rather than birdsong. She's the passerby you see and forget; She's the milk in your fridge silently going bad— She's the soul you don't read, the smile you can't catch, the sunset by an unmapped coastline.