Deborah McCallister

This other version of myself,
the one I can’t quite manifest,
wears jangly turquoise jewelry
and swishy skirts with lots of color.
Her jeans are several sizes smaller than mine.
She’s always wearing lipstick.
Every day she walks five miles and only eats
organic produce, never In-N-Out burgers
or M&M’s. She spends her days
reading poetry and literature, writing
passionately from her fertile imagination.
Her many friends value her insight and her
sensitive nature. At night
she lights candles, and contemplates
her connection with the
Divine. She feels God at the base of her
spine, in her skin, in the candle-scented
air she breathes. She loves herself
and her universe.

I see her sometimes when I’m
brushing my hair, or
just washing my hands. I’m startled
by her intensity, by how compelling
her eyes are, drilling into mine in the
bathroom mirror. She’s trying to tell
me something, something that
will change me forever. Just as
her lips part to whisper to me,
I switch off all the lights
and hide.