Reflecting on Me

by Melanie White

Who is it I see?
Is it me
or some wrinkled face
old and incomprehensible
that I will never be?
That cracked reflection I
don't recognize. Does it
look like the someone imagined with my inner eye?
No. It is a stranger--
someone else who
withers and dies.
Not I.
Instead, I spy someone
who is young inside
where nobody ages
like on a novel's pages
where the protagonist
always wins.
Shocking then
to see the tired reflection
of someone who vaguely resembles the person
I'm thought to be.
Are we the person
others see or
the individual
we believe
ourselves to be?