Every few months I get to meet myself again.
I look into the mirror and see a ghost.
Who am I? Where did I come from?
I know it’s me that I’m looking at
but nothing is recognizable.
“I have green eyes,” I tell myself.
This will be over soon,
I remember from the last time.
I am not scared of the stranger in front of me;
I wait with bated breath to know her name.
m.e. peters
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