Warped Reflections...or are they?
There she is. I really didn’t think she would look so...misshapen. It’s almost appaling how all her curves are in the wrong spots, wonky and out of place. Her stomach protrudes more than her breasts, or rather more than her right breast. They are terribly uneven, as is the rest of her. Asymmetrical. Her smile, her hips, and even her eyebrows have a certain warped distinction. Maybe I’m being too critical of her, I doubt she even sees all of these flaws on her person.
The look in her eyes says otherwise, along with that downward twist dancing on her lips, she knows very well of her appearance. She is too critical of herself, the poor thing. Regardless of what she may see and what I see as I stare back at her, she isn’t too bad. Her eyes hold a sparkle of hope...I have no idea what for because she is still a horrendous mess. I know you just woke up but quit blankly staring and comb that bird’s nest down! She is definitely a piece of work but the final product will always be exactly what it needs to be. It works out. She can be pretty, too.
Look in the mirror
When I read what you write to her
I can feel remnants
of this afternoon’s lunch
trying to make its way out
the same way it came
Don’t kid yourself though
I’m not green with envy
This nausea rises
from the pit of my stomach
where I myself swallowed
your honey-laden arsenic years ago.
The kind of twisting one might feel whilst watching a torturer tap wooden shivs under his victim’s finger nails
Only I’m watching from behind a one-way mirror that I can’t break.
When she finally does look for your reflection
She won’t see one
because vampires don’t have reflections
same old goofball
it spies a goofball
messy mop of curls
slight grey - sshh
glasses hiding cute eyes
accenting chubby cheeks
over a healthy curvy body
one with the hint of
above a happy peasant gut
and pasty white nerd skin
but sans acne now
with a few tattoos
scattered here or there
while I could spin closer
focus on bits of flab
or poor posture
or a chunky pitbull kinda head
that I wonder how
could love after all these years
(don't think about it)
instead I just focus on
"Hey - did I remember to put pants on today?"
and then remind myself
beauty's for queens
curves are for comfort
and my smile
lights this mother fucker up
Panic and Fear. Fear and Panic
The bathroom floor freezes with the granite sparkling from being freshly washed. My hands rub the floor, shiny and fresh. I don’t dare look up from the random flooring. My eyes stay glued to the solid ground, jumping from one orange spot to another as an attempt to calm myself. Despite my blurred vision the orange dots stand out. My heart slows but only for a few short moments. I want to look up, stare myself down in the mirror and not let go of my own stare. Force this panic back down into the depths it crawled out of. Force my ribs to let go of my lungs and let them breath. I don’t do that though. I never can. I want the courage to do so, I want to be flooded with relief when I look in any mirror, however, I never am. Only fear comes from mirrors. Fear and panic.
I have had like two panic attacks in my life, but I find them very fun to write.
A Guilded View
Hung from a jail of wire and nail I long for her to see,
the sweet confection that is her reflection
hidden inside of me.
But instead she flashes, right past she dashes, always on the run;
with manic insanity, no time for vanity
leaving me broken, and shunned.
Neverminding loneliness, never finding comeliness, crucified, and alone,
with views unchanged, and frames deranged
I longed for a face of my own.
Until one day, to my dismay, she flew past once again;
just to open the door, and rock my world
when she let in the Amazon man.
The box he brought, a gift she’d bought, herself reflected in me;
filling my view, when she hung it and screwed
it uptight with a golden key.
For there on the wall, right across the hall, she’s put up a cuckoo clock,
whose handsome face in it’s walnut case
ceaselessly ticks and tocks.
With nothing to gain, this clock entertains me, twenty-four and seven.
It‘s rocking and rolling, it’s tocking and tolling,
turned this hell-of-a-hallway to heaven.
Never now boring, the minutes affording, the hours the time to make days,
with springs a-worming, and gears a-turning;
a salve to my unflinching gaze.
Time now is cheap as this gaudy timepiece, whistles, whiles and works.
It’s pendulum swaying, it’s pennants waving
as the birdie twirls and twerks.
And I’d love to believe that what the clock sees in return is my guilded pelf,
my golden frame, my shining mane,
but the shame is...
it’s seeing itself.
I wish she could see. She thinks that she can, but compared to what I am privileged to, she’s blind. A beauty that can not properly be defined by the words in any understood language. A beauty that defies any of society’s molds or expectations. She holds such a dear position in my heart, and she doesn’t even know it. Her only flaw is her tendency to speak for me. She can’t see what I see, she doesn’t know what I know. She’s not qualified to judge herself on what she thinks I show. Deeper than the surface, there are layers to her I pray she soon discovers. Her beauty isn’t skin deep it’s intricate and bewitching. I wish she could see.
Check, double check, triple check, but what do they expect?
They come to me and see, but they are not willing to accept.
I show the truth but people will see what they want to see.
I reflect, but they project, sticking all of their insecurities on surrounding shelves.
Continue to perceive but never working on themselves.
If I am an extension of them, with no body all my own.
I hope to destroy with stone, this glass, like shattered bone.
So you think you’re smart, huh?
Every time you look into me, at yourself, you seem confident, huh?
Do you notice that your eyes aren’t even level and they’re not the same size?
What about your eyebrows? They are not symmetrical, you know. But I guess you can cover that up with some make-up.
And your nose. Oh God, there’s a big scar on your nose. I mean, you must be pretty proud of your nose huh? It’s kinda tall and slim, standing straight. But that scar, man, there’s just no way to cover it up. You just had to pop that pimple in high school, didn’t you?
Your mouth, well your mouth is fine. Right now rouge is trendy and your thick lips are good for that color. But man, did you notice your lips are also asymmetrical on the two sides? Like, it makes you look like you constantly have this evil grin, at least from my perspective. I don’t know if people notice it when they look at you, but when you look into me, I sure do notice. And when you put on rouge lipstick but not carefully draw the lipline, I can see it quite obviously.
Now, I know people always compliment your dimples. “Oh how cute” they say. Funny! You realize the left one is deeper than the right one? The only thing that people ever complimented about on your face and it’s just, how do I put it, horrendous.
Do I still need to go on? We’ve only talked about your face, not even your hair! You see, I just do NOT understand why you think you can put on a confident face when you look at me. You. Are. Flawed. You’re not beautiful. He probably doesn’t think you’re beautiful. Otherwise he would have stopped the other day to talk to you for a full minute, am I right? If only you were a tiny, little, eeny miny prettier, he would have paid you more attention. He would have responded to your email. Maybe would have given you his phone number even. But he DIDN’T. That should be a pretty obvious sign.
So yeah, pretend to be all confident in front of me, you imposter. Lie to yourself all your want. “He’s just busy.” Sure. “He’s not in a good mood.” Uh-huh.
Look at me.
Look at me!!
Wipe off those tears you loser! You have been an imposter all along. There’s no turning back. Now put that smile back on. Show your white teeth (ok I forgot to mention but those do look good actually) and try and make your dimples look even.
Now get out there and keep smiling. No one will know.
Trust me. I’ve seen it all. They’re all like this.
#nonfiction #romance #maybe
Reflections of the looking glass
the passage of time
that bring to mind
from days gone by
who loves many
it oft seems,
the one I see.