Alone on the bed.
Sitting and typing.
Images flash by.
Images I have never seen.
Of what I think others have seen.
Of me.
How am I when I laugh.
Or when I talk.
Or when I listen.
How am I when I am angry.
Or when I know someone looking at me.
Or when I think someone is looking at me.
How am I in moments when I am far away.
Or when I am consciously far away.
What contours does my face take?
The physical features of this organ.
That so many look at. And so many don’t.
How do they mould and to what do they mould?
Who will tell me my truth?
Who will record my history for me?
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