I sit down
and look at myself.
The girl that looks back
I don’t recognise her.
I don’t see myself.
The girl that looks back
feels like a shell,
worn down,
almost hollow.
Over time,
I stopped recognising
my own reflection
not because I looked different,
older, of course,
but not different.
It’s the inside that’s changing.
The light is softer now,
dimmed.
I sit down
and look at myself
but I don’t see me anymore.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 1:49 PM UTC
I sit down
and look at myself.
The girl that looks back
I don’t recognise her.
I don’t see myself.
The girl that looks back
feels like a shell,
worn down,
almost hollow.
Over time,
I stopped recognising
my own reflection
not because I looked different,
older, of course,
but not different.
It’s the inside that’s changing.
The light is softer now,
dimmed.
I sit down
and look at myself
but I don’t see me anymore.
The fifth poem in my small series