Who Are You, Stranger



Who Are You, Stranger?

I look into the mirror

glazing myself over as I usually do,

but what stares back at me

is not the reflection of the girl I've always known.


Who are you, stranger?


A girl no more:

worry-free,

no more;

a child's spirit, 

no more. 


Before me now

stands a woman

I do not recognize.

My heart can't help but ask,

who are you, stranger?


* * *


I know what I am;

a worn,

mother of three. 

A caretaker,

wife,

and sibling. 


I cling to my artistry,

an artist is the only other thing

I can call myself,

but is it only through my paintings

that I am able to speak?

To be?

Who am I

stranger, 

could you tell me?


When you meet me,

what do you think?

Intelligence?

Snootiness?

How am I perceived?

Why is it that I feel, 

only you could tell me?


An outsider's perspective, 

perhaps?

But what a stranger perceives 

of another stranger, 

can hardly be what I seek to acquire;

understanding, 

me. 


I'm tired of feeling like a stranger. 


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