unfinished

Flipping through pages of
not-so-old photo albums
feels like driving down dark highways
vaguely remembered through childs’ eyes.
The face reflected in the mirror,
it’s mine–I recognize it, but only
from the albums.
Do we ever become what,
live the life, we’ve always wanted?
Barb-wire lining these four walls
I’ve only ever called home bats sunlight
into my eyes–funny I’ve never
caught this glare before.
I’ve become a stranger in my own life.
The hollow in my chest feels like cancer
and I wonder if there’s chemo
for a pain with no name