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Tonight I break my silence. This is my open letter to you.
You will always be remembered as a vapor
the heat-wet rising to fog the mirrors,
blurring distinction:
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw you, too.
But that’s not true
I saw a mirage and what I wanted to see
Last I looked I saw nothing ajar, nothing amiss.
Sentimentality is lost on the broken-hearted.
You fog me no more.
I have somewhat bothersome dissociative episodes
in which I look in the mirror and do not recognize mysels
(No, I mean)
I do not recognize myself
or
I recognize myself apart from the human flesh that sometimes binds me
I tell my psychiatrist about this. Hmmm, he says.
What do you think these are about, he asks.
A shrug.
I had been hoping he could tell me
I was hoping you could tell me, I say
But he can’t
and he doesn’t say this is a common symptom for others like me
So we stare at each other in awkward silence
for a pre-determined amount of time in which he is supposed to give the patient the time and space to continue to speak, if they wish
I do not wish
He breaks the silence by inquiring how the Prozac is working for me.
Your Sympathies: