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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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