Look at her face:
the tears tattooed below her eyes,
permanent but somehow
invisible.
Am I the only one who sees
them? Am I the only one
who cares?
The blackness under her eyes
isn't smudged mascara or
whatever people put on themselves
nowadays.
Those tunnels of sorrow are
always there.
You don't see them, do you?

Look at the other face:
the lines are glory and joy,
dimples of (what's it called again?)
happiness.
Lips turned upwards in grateful
smiles and laughing motions.
You see it don't you?
You see that other face but you
ignore me –

Her. Her, not me. Her.
She's not me, she's someone
different. She's an outcast.
She's a failing heart, a broken
soul. Doomed.
When I look in the mirror
and she the tattooed tears
shining back…
It can't be me. (It's you.)
How did this become
me?