I look in the mirror and I am positive I see someone.
But I stare longer, and fuller, and I wonder -
How does this someone become real?
become real
to the man who saw me in the coffee shop,
when I turned my head
and the light fell from my hair
to my cheekbones.
to the driver who passed me
at the intersection
seeing the slight tilt of my chin
my eyes glancing quickly skyward.

I look in the mirror
and I see bruises under my eyes,
the marks of heavy tears, and
heavy scrunched up eyelids
that have left nights of despair on my face
as I've crawled to bed
clutching my knees to my heart.

I look at my hands and they have shadows,
valleys where dark green veins rise and fall
in tidy pulses.

I stare and I stare
and I wonder
when do I become real?
when the brains of brains of brains set eyes
on my sunken cheeks
my rushing veins
my scalloped knuckles?

I am embarrassed
to be real,
but I crave the pulsations
of brains of energy of connections
connecting
to flesh and eyes
and heart
and vein
and I sink into myself
and scratch the pen and paper
with red ink
and I am silent.
I pulse.
I pulse.
I pulse.
but who would know it?