She has my hair, so long and painted.
She has my eyes, so blue and clear.

But the rest of her is different.
How did she come to be here?

When I look into the mirror,
looking back into the mirror,
I see someone in my mirror
and I wonder who she is.

Does my back fold that way?
Do my arms flap quite so free?
Do the ripples in her skin
really match ripples on me?

Age is creeping onward
and my years are creeping too.
And the wrinkles and age spots
are making me blue.

When I look into the mirror,
looking back into the mirror,
I see someone in my mirror
and I wonder who she is.

She has my hair; she has my eyes.
She has my fingers and my nails.
I didn’t know her skin was mottled
into darks and lights and pales.

I guess I am getting older,
guess I’m old enough to know
that the woman in the mirror
doesn’t show what I want to show.

When I look into the mirror,
looking back into the mirror,
I see someone in my mirror
and I wonder who she is.

a random poem written up in five minutes
after wondering if that was really me
in the mirror