I’m glad I look like my reflection
It’s what I saw in the window of the coffee shop as I entered.
Inside I was shredded, I was yesterday and tomorrow, I was stungunned by blue eyes, and guilty and broke, but not so broke to have hit bottom. I was something to some people, but nothing to myself. The things that mattered couldn’t matter, and every music note was so sharp that I couldn’t tell it apart from beauty, and more than anything, I wanted there to be someway to make it stop.
The reflection had short brown hair and a face that was both innocent and honorable. She approached herself and almost smiled, a bag over her shoulder, a blue and gray striped scarf stark against fair skin and naturally pink and pale lips .
“One tall coffee,” I told the girl behind the counter. She saw the girl in the window, and I wasn’t her. She talked for me. I waited for my drink, I was invisible. The people moved through me. Their faces and their hair color and the books they read and the short black dress of the girl behind me and the carefully chosen boots.
The boy on the couch opposite me sighed. Another in an artfully ripped wife-beater and tired military high-tops walked with shoulders rolling in swag.
The green-aproned barista called my name but even the coffee couldn’t reach me. I was stashed away in trees, in closets, under bangs, under covers, somewhere where being human wasn’t so desperately isolating.
There is far more to feel in this alternate reality where I am right now. The music isn’t louder but I hear it more vividly.