Dysphoric

As a child, I learned to fear
the monsters in the closet
the beasts under the bed.
Back then, my own reflection
didn’t seem that troubling.

But then, one day
without warning, without words
something crept up behind me
as I stood before the mirror
and whispered in serrated syllables:

this is not who you are.

Doubt and denial pooled in my ears
and the mirror became a morgue
where I’d dissect myself each day
pulling apart the layers of meat 
and muscle to get to truth.

It ruled my life from the periphery
insidious interloper that slid inside
and set up shop, shouting over 
my self-confidence until
I was strong enough to scream back: 

this is not who I am.