tale to tale

Within these walls I lie,
Working through my cycle.
It’s an entire book of mirrors,
That can’t catch the view outside my window.

I’d add a new entry, if there were space,
But there’s no room, for a third page.
The first shows me as I am,
And the second just reflects.

Would that a small moth
Enter my periphery,
So that I can stop staring
And freshen my eyes.

But I watch this burnt face,
Cracked and tired,
That smiles beneath swollen cheeks,
And holds all of me.

This is the first time,
After years of self-torture,
That I’ve seen my face,
With the scars I’ve left.