On A Saturday Afternoon

You will look in the mirror and you will not recognize the face you see.

Too square around the jaw,
too long the nose,
too small the lips.
Lips that purse like rose petals,
and you had thought them lilies.
You will see your hair as brassy, something metallic
and hard and quite unlike the sunset.
You will observe the veins in your hands.
They will be green,
and foreign.

You will resist.
There will be men,
and they will love you,
and you will scrutinize them.
You will forget their faces until you are with them again.
They will become shadows.

The yellow of leaves will glare
and transform, reminding you of a dream.
And you will not be able to separate the dream from
the leaves.
The dream will seep into your eyes
and it will become the only thing you see.
Branches will become fingers.
You will have memories of things that did
not happen.
You will be sleepwalking. 

And all the while,
they will talk to you.
They will tell you to rewrite your story.
From somewhere far away and misted,
they will say that you could turn the pages.
If only you really wanted to.
If only you wanted to badly enough.
If only.
They will tell you to write.
They will tell you you are wrong.
And you will believe them.
And you will not wake up.
And you will not wake up.
And you will not wake up.