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In the mirror.
Stealing bits and pieces of information about myself from people I don’t know.
They tell me that I have my grandfather’s eyes or that I behave like my uncle when he was young.
I look for these parts, these broken pieces I lost. I don’t know when I lost them, though.
An aunty I meet will tell me that she heard I was good at geography. I don’t like geography. Or do I?
Don’t blame me for trying to find the shattered pieces of the mirror in which I hope to see my reflection.
But deep down I know even after I find all these shards, I won’t see a reflection of myself.
Because I won’t recognise the glossed over person in mirror.
ugh this isn't a poem.
14/M/belongs to the rain
(14/M/belongs to the rain)
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