but she seems sad
i feel bad for her
she needs home
but she's trapped behind the glass
unless she's hurting someone
a little girl
her family gave her away
they didn't want her
now love these people
she doesn't know who she is
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
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.
Now I Am Myself
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
Adaptation (a drabble)
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.
I clean myself up, hastily,
fall into bed,
hoping to sleep off the insecurities,
and see a new reflection tomorrow.