yesterday the girl who looked back at me in the mirror wasn't meMature

Yesterday, the girl who looked back at me in the mirror
wasn’t me.  Not this me.  Maybe a different one, visible only through
distorted glass, in some alternate space we can’t touch or hear or smell.
She was callow and hard; a darkness had settled where only light
has ever touched me; some of the photic hues were gone from her eyes.
I think of her a lot, now.  Of the path she took to get there.
I wonder how closely our fate lines are carved into our palms.

The End

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