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  On Not Being The Same Person 

  Whoever thinks I am their mirror – 
  with dishwater hair and stickbug
  fingers, a nose to rival the Sphinx –
  should remember how that frame
  reverses things – who draws in
  on the easy or the weak, who reflects
  what is thrown at it and 
  August blossoms with humid fat,
  the lush lull of slow rivers
  convincing themselves to turn over
  on gray rocks. Whoever sees
  themselves in me would 
  be well-served to glance again. 

written a long time ago and i don't even remember who or what about. by a long time last year. by i don't remember it may be that time my supposed best-friend slept with the guy i thought i loved. MAYBE. not sure.