Stranger

I am living with a stranger. 

She swipes on her berry lipstick. 

She hooks on her gold earrings.

But I am living with a stranger. 

Her hair fluffs at all the points

that my finger detangle. 

Her hair curls just like mine. 

Her eyes fall to the right just like mine. 

Her fingers wrap around

that can of Vanilla Coke. 

I hesitate and she puts it back,

she knows better. 

I stare at my tennis shoes. 

She slips on a sports bra. 

Her eyes grow heavy 

as my fingers fly over the backlight

computer keys. 

I am living with a stranger. 

She doesn’t smile like she used to,

it never reaches the dark 

brown depths of her eyes. 

She picks at her nails more often,

teeth aching to snap the nail 

in half. Her skin crawls

late at night, buried under

those red sheets that I wash. 

When I stare into the mirror,

her brows are the same,

the same lashes blink up at her,

but her eyes are sad. The lids

are dark, puffy. She carries

all the tears she’s never cried 

in her under eyes, colored

purple under 

the chestnut skin. 

I am living with a stranger. 

I no longer recognize

myself in the mirror. 

That’s not my smile lifting 

my cheeks. Those aren’t my 

fingers scratching at day old scabs. 

I am living with a stranger. 

I always thought it was Dad

living with a shell of his daughter. 

But I do not know 

the girl in the mirror.

---

Hunter Blackwell has previous work published in Twist in Time Magazine, The Write Launch, and Rose Quartz Magazine. She earned her BA in Psychology from The College of William and Mary. She currently resides in Hampton, VA. She's a queer writer of color who obsesses over Marvel and is always looking for new crockpot recipes. Find her on Twitter @hun_blackwell.