Moro Reflex

I only say the same things over and over again
But the stories are more or less full. Boxes
Of concepts fill the mirror, I am blank,
Not making any sense. I pulled them down too quick
And it hurt, and I now keep repeating this thing,
This thing trying not to contradict myself. But I win
If I am only just about here; and they all say,
Erm, not sure, perhaps, some say, parts of me;

And I look again in the mirror laughing at the self.
I am still very fake, but I am not walking
Onto punches. The boxes are lighter and carefully packed
By me. I haven’t misused the word “love”
In weeks. It is hardly a linear existence, but I am not counting.

And I feel it: ignoring cliches; curious stares back at… me?