Overwritten

every morning before I’m awake

busy hands press yesterday’s carbon copy

over my sleepy eyes

masterfully matching

wrinkle over wrinkle,

cleft over cleft,

form over form,

so that, when I wake up,

I am tricked that I have

the same cheeks,

and the same navel,

and my lips seem identical,

while my nails have grown

just a little bit,

yet they look the same,

short and round

at the end of white bony fingers,

no nail polish,

just a familiar white silver ring

shining discretely in the morning light.

every morning, before I’m awake,

busy writers finish the lines

that I need

to remember who I am,

and what I have to do

in the brave new world

of this old-new me,

of this new-old me.

imperfect carbon copy,

uncomplete overwritten lines

keep me staring for a second

into the abyss of the ceiling,

wondering who am I.

eventually, as my mirror

struggles to confirm my identity,

I put on some makeup

covering for the gaps

that the invisible hands

carelessly left over my traits.

and, as I leave my house,

my mind still tries

to mend and amend

who I am…

Photo by Alexander Jawfox on Unsplash