You said you are fine–

but I can see past your eyes.

You, friend, are not fine.

If I could make you

see . . . see what stirs your raging

sea . . . then you would know

that your storm is fierce.

Gray skies cloud your downcast-set

eyes and I can’t find

a way to reach you

because you’re walled up by waves

and I’m not a ship.

You say you don’t need

help, but what do you call your


No, you call it fine.

And anybody with eyes

can see that you’re not.

Let them help, let me

help you reach the blanket shore,

wrap you in safety

and warmth. You haven’t

been fine for a while, and

you need to know that

this self-saving act

is not a game. And I say

this–only say this–

because you are me,

I am you. Why else would I

speak to a mirror?

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