What My Mirror Says

You should be me, I am living the life, 
where misgivings are few and prospects are rife.
Where people say they love me and I don’t question them, 
where people claim fidelity and I’m not testing them.

You grumble and you groan and you lie and you think,
I get up and get it done, you are always on the brink,
wondering if you are good enough to even try
while I bid goodbye to my fright and take flight.

You stand before me, and it’s anyone’s good guess, 
sealed brows, dead eyes — are you happy or in duress?
There is little more disheartening for me than seeing you
stagger through self-doubt while I do everything you wish to.

See, I want you to be me, I want you to be free, 
on my side of the world there’s no such thing as misery.
You look at me and all you see are the flaws in yourself:
the lacerations on your body, the lack of trophies on your shelf.

I wish you could be me, see me for who I am — 
confident, self-assured, and contented as a clam.
It doesn’t take much, why do you make it so hard?
All it takes is to remember: 
You’re the player and the universe your wild card.

But my side and yours, in antithesis both are wrought, 
does that mean you’re doomed to be everything I am not?
My left is your right, my Verlan is your French, 
I bide time till the whistle while you warm the bench.

If all it takes for you to be me is a body swap,
a supernatural switch, a complex flick of the magic wand,
I am more than willing to feel the grass on your side,
mine is greener — come on over, enjoy the ride.

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