Some mornings when I wake,
it’s as if I have entered someone else’s life
wearing someone else’s dress
and someone else’s socks
and try as I might,
I can’t seem to find myself inside them,
can’t seem to get them off of me.
I read a book in which a woman’s lover
tears off her clothes with his teeth.
I’d be grateful for the help, of course,
but what if I discovered more layers—
what if my skin had to go, too?
And what after that?
How long can I move through the world
as if I’m a stranger to myself?
How long can I pretend not to know
this is the only life I’m given?
This skin, mine. This body,
with its trillions of cells,
the only body I get.
This day with its unfamiliar dress,
the only day.
Looking in the mirror,
I see what I always see—
someone I almost recognize,
someone I sometimes
feel ready to meet.