alluring illusion

there’s a beautiful girl i know

and she looks just like me

she appears in my daydreams

and night dreams

and her name is my own

her friends are my friends

and she likes what i like

because we are both me

everywhere i go i am her

(i think i am her)

she is the girl in every beloved love story

who people meet in bookstores

and coffee shops

and try to romance because she is so lovely

and mysterious

and effortlessly

enchanting

(no one i don’t know speaks to me ever

and i don’t ever speak to anyone

i don’t know)

if i think i might like someone

they must love her back

and they want her to be theirs

(far more than i could ever want them to be mine)

and i will close my eyes

and picture the confession

played out like a movie

because the thought of being desired

is just

so

(desirable)

this girl and i

exist at the same time

in the same body and mind

until someone pulls out a camera

and shows me the photo

and i realize

she isn’t

real

(not in the way that i want her

to be)

she is thinner

and delicate

with a confident stride

she is what i see

(what i want to see;

what i make myself see)

in my reflection

every time i get dressed

for the day

(and i am glimpses of myself

in bookstore windows

and white coffee shop mugs

and black tv screens;

candid and objective

and made of things i wish

i wasn’t)

no smoke,

all mirrors

a sickness and a stab when i remember

she is only inside my head

because when i can’t see myself

i think i am her

(i think i am her)

when i am so much

less beautiful

in the flesh

(in everyone else’s eyes)

and it’s hard

to feel beautiful again

after that.