I was running from myself, trying to be someone different for each person of importance in my life, tailoring myself to their needs, choosing personas to inhabit and abandon, wearing masks that only obscured my own desires and the gravity of my choices. I was code-switching for the hell of it, without much purpose but with plenty of precision.
-Brandon Harris, “The lies we tell ourselves about gentrification“
In an unguarded moment
I saw what it is, to not see myself.
The fogged up mirror
didn’t let my reflection reach me.
And what reached me was
just a picture colored out of lines.
The more I looked at my obscured face,
the more I was convinced
that the faces was not mine.
The more I was convinced of the face being a stranger’s,
more easier it was for me to love and accept it.
If I could see myself as someone else
how easier it would be to live my life.
Not knowing what I know about myself,
not knowing what I think.
To be what I am and what I am not at the same time.
How easier it would be , if this is
what I saw in mirror everyday.
How beautiful can be not knowing, not seeing.
Only smudged shades of colors.
A face not mine.