Disobedient lips, rickety eyes...

When the people ask me about my name I got puzzled. I have a name, yes, but when it comes out of my lips, I feel like it’s not me. When I stand before the mirror, I can feel it's not the face I'd have. I can say my name's letters slowly. Slowly but not leisurely, and while am reaching the last letter I feel like am reaching the last paragraph of my own life book. I couldn't hate the letters though, or mirrors as well. Why? Cause I know, deep down, that you may stand before my door, your mischievous cigarette resting in ease on your disobedient lips, to give the meaning to everything.