To Not Suspect
I close my eyes,
I see myself in the mirror.
Reflecting back is all I wish not to see.
I stare at my walk to school this morning–
oh, how the deceptive sun convinced me not to bring a jacket.
Oh, how the trees overcame the crash of the wind,
but I still felt its frigid, sporadic change in directions.
It blew too many words and thoughts,
ideas and feelings,
emotions and apathy.
And all those who passed in their sealed-off vehicles would not have suspected a thing.
There I was in class,
mother-criticized posture in those worn, metal seats.
I swore at myself for letting her down.
All she had taught me–
But I remained with my crooked shoulders,
and she would never suspect a thing.
I roamed around the produce isle:
the wilting lettuce–
no purpose in buying,
yet I did anyways.
Blended in a smoothie,
no one would suspect a thing.
I stepped off at the wrong bus stop,
too embarrassed to get back on,
so I continued to walk forward,
and not one passenger would suspect a thing.
I turned the key and drove off,
cringing as the gauge moved towards the E.
I was driving in circles,
but made sure to turn down an alley every few blocks–
the Honda to my right would never suspect that I did not have a destination.
And I shut my eyes tighter.
Why must we fall asleep to the sight of a mirror?