Sometimes, I look at photos and wonder….

Who is that she? That she who is me?
Or at least who wears my face better than I do?

She who is funny and smart, and who works my body like she is walking a runway
While I stumble behind tripping over my inability to keep up.
This she, who is me, but not me.

Not real me who lives in stained pajamas subsisting on toast crumbs and despair
whose days are spent trudging through the mundane tasks of survival, every moment a struggle.
My work is staying alive.  Keeping the faith.
Holding back the deluge just behind my eyes.  Ever vigilant.
A moments respite will unleash the mighty flood and wash away the village.

Nothing will be spared.

She who is me, but not me, throws her head back and laughs loud and deep, the pleasure of the joke cascading through her curves in the most delightful fashion.

She is building a business.  She is planning an adventure of far flung travels.
She is cultivating authenticity.  She is lies upon lies upon lies.

I pile them all on my plate and  voraciously eat them all,
each one making me more malnourished than the last.


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