A journal of narrative writing.

You grew one to look
older, sexier, wiser, to prove to yourself
you could, hair after tiny hair,
skin covered, skin less
exposed, the face of a grizzly man,
someone you once hated, now
your reflection, you cannot
turn away.
Sometimes, you excuse yourself
to the restroom, just to look
in the mirror, stare
at the handsome man
who stares back. Sometimes,
you stare long enough that you
disappear, and the bearded man is just another
bearded man, not you, just someone, someone
you never met before, and you
hold conversations with yourself
about a woman you used to date,
her legs long
in a mini skirt and high heels,
but then you realize you never
dated her, she’s just an image
from some film
you once saw in a small theater
on East 11th between 1st and 2nd Avenues,
and you can no longer remember the title,
you can no longer remember.