Who is Who?

His face was greasy and worn,
like fly-paper strips
melting in the sun.

There was a strange
familiarity about him,
breeding contempt.

He gaped at me,
I felt his emotional scars.
They were tangible,
akin to ones of a
whipped slave.

His gaunt, unsociable eyes,
bore the lives of a
thousand nobodies.
I despised
being near him.

Yet there I was
seeing myself in the
reflection of his glare.

Suddenly I realized,
that in his eyes,
I was the freak show.

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