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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.

SOB with me

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