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
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.