somebody i don’t want to be anymore.
if i could rid the world of all mirrors and reflective surfaces,
i would.
i don’t want to look at myself
i hate looking at myself
i hate who i am.
my reflection points out all the things
i hate about myself
even the things
that aren’t visible to the human eye.
i’m trying
to love
what i see
but why is it so damn hard?
a girl.
a failure.
a freak.
my reflection shows all of that.
i’m tired.
i’m tired of smiling at myself
trying to pretend i’m ok.
i’m so tired.
i’m tired of crying in front of the mirror
wishing i was better,
wishing i were someone else,
but there’s nothing i can do about it.
i used to be such a happy girl
with a smile brighter than the sun.
whatever happened
to that girl?
i hate looking at myself.
i hate what i see in the mirror.
i hate who i am.
i hate being me.
so instead of letting my tears fall
and giving the mirror
a front-row seat
to my misery,
i’ll just let the shards fall to my feet
and blood trail down my fists.
Embracing Truth
Mirrors are terrifying things. One, for what they reflect about yourself that is true; and two, for what they do not reflect that you wish was true.
Mirrors are unrelenting in their honesty; they do not lie or cushion reality. Yet, they are also kind in that they don’t exaggerate. What you see is what you get—no more, no less. Then why do many a viewer accuse their looking glass of being a harsh, unforgiving critic? I believe it’s in the double-fold nature of the thing. A mirror is an object, made of reflective metal or glass; it’s not sentient—it has no thoughts or feelings. One cannot rationally blame their mirror for what they see in it. At the same time, your mirror is an instrument that reveals a part of yourself you often desire to forget. No wonder we hate them, even up to hiding or smashing them in horror or rage.
I’ve had my own quibbles with my mirror, employing a myriad of avoidance or selective viewing tactics. But I’ve realized that in detesting my mirror, I detest my reflection; and in detesting my reflection, I detest myself. Projecting my fears or disgust on an inanimate third party does not remove my issues with myself, it only delays them and the inevitability of confrontation. While I work at ignoring my own reality, I’m ignoring the deeper harm inflicted upon my soul.
I think we all know you can’t deal with a problem by avoiding it. However, self-reflection issues seem to be more vague, and therefore deeper, obscurer, more difficult to exorcise.
It starts with a willingness to be utterly honest with ourselves. Ask the hard questions, which are invariably the right questions. Embrace our truth, no matter what it looks like; in the end, our reflection is what we make of it.
And stop blaming our poor innocent mirrors.
Born’n ’93 ~
I see them looking back
Green eyes, mine
A forehead scar from Nanny's
Marble coffee table
When I was three
Left-side eye dimple
From when I got bit by a dog
Just before I turned five
Hair a long an' tangled mess
Flyaways cast me frazzled -
Or haywire
But my toothy chin grin
Looks like it did back
When I was eighty-pounds stouter
And I'm proud to note that my
Thinklines and laughlines
Are the clearest sign of aging
It's good look me straight in the eye
And ask how's this?
-----
@bykaileyann
#reflection #freeverse #poetry #spokenword
When I look in the mirror
When I look in the mirror I see a girl that despises herself. I see someone that is trying her hardest but it's never enough. I see the unsymetrical face, the too big nose, the acne. I see all the things that make me human, and I hate them. I see the failure that my parents tried so hard to raise right. I see an outgoing girl, who hates interaction. I see the eyes that never sparkle anymore. When I look in the mirror I feel beautiful. I see a girl that can take on the world. I see a girl with no flaws. I see the smile that is genuine for once. I see the girl I used to know.
Passible
I avert my eyes
while brushing my teeth
harder in my 10X mirror.
Aging inevitable
my hand
sloppy applying eye liner
not the sure dark swoops
they used to be
my eyebrows growing sparse
zits at my age
hair to pluck for my upper lip
and chin.
lines
where there used to be none
on my forehead
fenced brow
patted bland with moisturizer
concealer foundation powder.
I frown too much.
Working up a smile in the mirror
crinkles at the corners of my eyes
parenthesis surrounding lip lines
my teeth clean
but not as white
as those I see on the TV.
The big bathroom mirror
kinder
fogged from
the morning shower
shows me passible
the me that is not me
the one I let people see
Still passible.
Reflections
In my bedroom hangs an antique mirror. Long ago, I placed a thick curtain over it to hide my reflection; it reminds me of the monster I am.
Most of the men invited into my room do not notice the hidden object, focused solely on their carnal intent. That is, until I open a vein and lust is replaced with terror. For those who question the covered mirror, I explain it is cracked.
Many accept this and return their attention to my body. Only one has allowed his curiosity to override his desire.
‘Are you superstitious?’ he asked.
‘We make our own luck,’ I whispered in his ear, pressing into his warmth.
He nuzzled my neck and I thought I had him back, but he pulled away too soon.
‘I could have it fixed.’
Fighting to keep the irritation – and fear – from my voice, I unfastened his belt.
‘Later,’ I said. ‘First, I want you.’
He let me undress him but refused to lay down. Pulling me to my feet, he said, ‘Let’s watch our reflection.’
Were it possible, my ice-blood would have chilled.
‘No.’ My tone was harsh.
Uncertainty flashed in his eyes. I knew I would have to act soon. There was no time to secure him to the bedposts.
Pulling the razor from under the bed, I stood and swiped the blade across his throat. Arterial spray washed over me. I opened my mouth, gulping down the hot blood.
Pressing a futile hand to his neck, he staggered backward. My heart froze as he collided with the mirror. He fell to the ground, the curtain going with him.
It is well-known vampires do not cast reflections.
The man’s sobs muted as the drape covered him and I was left staring into my blood-soaked face.
Mirror, mirror
What do I see
gazing upon the silver
besides tired eyes
-my daddy's sad eyes-
looking back at me?
My mother's daughter
aging attractive woman
striving not to care
that there is no
portrait in the attic
Daddy's little girl
hopelessly hopeful dreamer
grasping, at last, his
search for solace
in an empty glass
my husband's wife
ageless forever lover
struggling to care for all
with a bright smile
till death do us part
my son’s mom
ever present, able, willing
hugging, listening, doing
weeping as I
start to fade to black.
I'm having a conversation with my reflection and they tell me "Sooner or later you are going to disappoint them all over again."
And I can't help but choke on my words as a tear slips down my cheek. "It's ok....someday."
Glancing back in the mirror all I see is someone who is lost in their head, and is lost to the madness.
when i was 10
Sometimes
i wonder if my mirror is broken
and i should send it back to Ikea,
the store for the lost.
Whenever i catch a glimpse
of my skin
my body grows cold
and my brain gets
c l o u d y
this is not the girl i remember
the girl who said she'd never wear makeup because
"all girls are beautiful without makeup"
and
"makeup covers your beauty"
the girl who said she'd never swear
the girl who said she could love.
The long fake lashes, thick and sometimes goopy eyeliner, the heavy foundation,
all of it sits there on my face as if a clown had applied it
well, that clown is me
the hair that's been through many shades
and endured hours of agony
sits like a rats nest atop my head
bumpy, irregular bone structure with a double chin, those tired eyes that were once called gorgeous
who knew everything could change so fast,
especially your view of yourself
she changes everyday
she changes everyday
sometimes a lot
sometimes little
her eyes,
they know more
than they did before.
the shadows
beneath them, weigh
her down with
"growing up"
a disease that has yet
to find its cure
she changes everyday
sometimes i don't remember
what she looked like
the day before
her eyes,
red and puffy.
the shadows
over her head
have darker.
she changes everyday
sometimes she doesn't appear,
that little girl in the mirror.
though she's not really
little anymore.
disease groans in her veins
and in vain she resists,
that little girl in the mirror.
she changed everyday
until one day she was gone