When I look in the mirror, I wonder if the image reflecting back is what you see. You don’t know me.
There is a reversal, and the optimism I project seems to be rejected back. You don’t see me.
All I say is from the heart. I speak honest from the start. You don’t hear me.
I endlessly listen. You ask, yet don’t care to inquire: going through the motions it seems. You don’t feel* me.
With care, with love, with peace, I ask for little and get just that. (I should ask for what I want: reciprocity.) You don’t show me.
A lifetime with a well running empty from filling yours. I fill my own, but what happened to share and share alike? You don’t fill me.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” The reply so simple, the answer always there, “whoever said life was fair?”
*”Feel” here meaning “get” or “understand”