my skin does not speak the language of confidentiality
there are scars from never-ending tears, tracings of laughter on my cheeks,
remembrance of the sun
craters like the moon.
indents from the stares of strangers and cracks from past lovers,
and mothers –
but there is a woman in my mirror.
I lift my arm and she doesn’t move.
There is a woman in my mirror
that I do not recognize
and I don’t think she does either.
– is this grief?
a work in progress 
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