She put a mirror on your ceiling

that you see every time you lay down,

just before the line between dreams and reality

begins to blur, and she forced you to notice it

so that you cannot escape

seeing yourself

knowing yourself

the way others do, as if you are a mystery to yourself

and have never seen your own face

under the masks you use interchangeably.

Where is your soul, she asks you. I can't see it.

And you think there is no difference

between a mask and a face,

your reflection and your facade.

But the mirror is there, and it grows on you

so that as you age you begin searching

for your true self. Thank her one day.