a liar

a thief

a murder

but she seems sad

familiar

and weak

i feel bad for her

she needs home

but she's trapped behind the glass

unless she's hurting someone

a kid

a little girl

a victim

her family gave her away

they didn't want her

now love these people

she doesn't know who she is

my breath

clouds the

glass I

cant see

her now

but i can feel her tears

but she looks like me

but half alive

and twice as weak

Fingers through fog

hoping for a clearer image.

I know what I look like,

or used to look like,

but I feel different now.

I wonder if I’ve changed

since the last time

or am I the same old deadbeat

wearing a different mask

trying to deceive everyone

including myself?

The answer is never forthright.

So, I’ll wait

'til the moisture dries up.

My only problem is

I'm always dirty

so the shower is always on.

I was told angry isn't pretty, smashed glass just looks like insanity when it's your fists doing the talking. I want to rhyme everything, but I'm no poet - or, at least, that's what my reflection is telling me, every moment.

They say formal writing doesn't use apostrophes, too informal and not enough effort put forward. I filled out my applications in red ink and was surprised when they came back as rejections, too much emotion doesn't equal achievement.

In fact, when I look in the mirror, I see someone who will never amount to anything, but isn't that every white girl on the planet in my age bracket?

I define myself based on my race, age, gender. How are we doing today, women of my same demographic? I look in the mirror and see them succeeding, me fading, when I turn on the faucet, it's to wash away my inadequacies.

I feel like it's either friend or foe we're looking at when we see our own reflection. Hatred, or understanding. But does anyone love who they are and also how they present in this world we inhabit?

In the mirror, I see a weird face, a grim little smile. I read Anne Sexton yesterday; she said: Once I was beautiful, now I am myself. I cried in the shower and took her words to heart. Maybe when I was younger I loved who I was, but now, it's a grey area, territory my many personalities don't dare to cross for fear of getting lost.

Looking in the mirror

I catch glimpses of my father

The shape of his face

His almond-shaped brown eyes

He passed his smile to me as well

Even his ears are on loan to me

His sadness and depression

Ignored by the family

Diminished by my mother

Chased away all who did not understand

When I look into his eyes

I see that he also passed those traits to me

My own sad eyes seem to catch me off guard

Every now and then

By the striking resemblance to my Dad's

A blessing in disguise

Our familial dispositions

He was a man of solitude

Who could be kind, friendly, and verbose

When it was called for

His personality was an enigma

Always catching us by surprise

From one day to the next

It's a good thing to be yourself

Even if it makes life difficult

If my melancholia was a gift from my father

I accept it with pleasure

It is an honor to be compared to such a man

Looking in the mirror always centers me.

It brings me right back to the present moments as if it somehow knows that I've been everywhere but right here.

I'm usually caught up in a past thought, obsessing over something meaningless or trying to take control of something that can't be controlled.

I'm a terrible daydreamer. I'm constantly romanticizing or catastrophizing my thoughts.

But the moment I look in a mirror, it grabs all my thoughts and holds them for a moment so that I can look at myself in the present.

I may have spent the entire day criticizing my past self or trying to imagine what my future self will be, but a mirror always reminds me to focus on what I am right now. Because that's the only person, I need to be.

"Today, when I looked in the mirror, I saw someone that's trying to figure themselves out, figure life out, and learn to live with themselves even when the guy looking back in the mirror isn't who they want to see." -IND

I didn't change, so here I am.

Talking was something that we didn't much do. There were conversations, but they were the stuff of hurry and want; 'do this,' 'don't do that,' 'do those again.'

We weren't particularly religious, but prayers were offered. Curses were thrown. Fists and caresses, hurled and caught. Rope wasn't in play, but knotted were we on those cotton sheets.

We were strangers in a lover's embrace, filling an emptiness, until the emptiness grew larger than I was willing to fill.

Nothing changed, so everything did.

Here I am. Not still the same, not quite different.

I see myself as I really am

At an unattractive moment

But that's no reflection me

I need to polish my image

But it'll be my image that I polish

I'll be shinier but it won't be me

I can't pass by without looking

If I don't pass, he doesn't pass

And the person inert is me

The one looking back is left, for right

But those in the back looking over my shoulder

Are right-to-left and right to leave

I'll never accept what I see

Unless I close my eyes

And that's a reflection on me

The flashlight of dawn streams through the glass pane, as I stop in front of my bathroom mirror. I tear my eyes open, peak at my most recent image.

My legs are strong,

my proportions are…agreeably proportional,

my face is sharp and clear.

I face the daylight with confidence.

As dusk brings darkness, I return to the same bathroom and flick on the yellowing bulbs.

My acne etched into my chin, my nose, my forehead…

I feel bloated.

And weak.

I clean myself up, hastily,

fall into bed,

hoping to sleep off the insecurities,

and see a new reflection tomorrow.