what lies behind the mirror

what makes you even ask

it's never what we long for

since we hide behind a mask

or is it masks that we don

ever more than one

a face for each occasion

lest we come undone

fall apart, implode, decay

frighten the world away

leaving us alone and fey

to all our fears now prey

Should we look behind the glass?

Do we really want to know?

Is ignorance truly bliss?

Shall we just enjoy the show?

What lies behind the mirror is a wall. What lies in front is mystery.

“Step right up folks; take the mirror test,” says the conman in the town square. “But be warned, this is a special mirror that looks into your soul. Everything you hide in there will be known.”

Everybody takes a step back, everybody a sinner it seems.

“Surely one person here is brave enough to face the mirror."

Everybody takes another step back, but me. Anchored by the power of suggestion, I stand still. To everyone else’s laughter and delight, I’m pulled in front of the mirror, trembling with fear of what I’ll see, and even worse, what others will. My resistance isn’t sufficient to save me from shame and embarrassment, and so my moment of truth arrives. I stare at the mirror and I see nothing. Nothing at all!

The conman announces, “This poor man has no soul!”

I look forward, yet I cannot see. Although reflected, I am blind to reality. I stare into myself, a stranger; this face is not a passerby or someone I will ever meet on the street. A stranger, I think, yet I am intimately familiar with her without ever having truly met her. The creature of my existence who puppeteers this stranger hides inside us, hiding behind the mirror. I look unto her in admiration, but the beast whispers lies until she is warped and misshapen. I am filled with disgust and must avert my eyes, turning away from the stranger who has become impossibly foreign despite my laying eyes on her everyday.

“She is the beast,” it whispers. “She is a creature of misfortune and misery. You must get rid of her.” It clutches onto my very being and digs its claws into the essence of my existence, flooding the train with thoughts of despair and messages of hate.

As time passes, it becomes quiet. The creature is pleasant. It’s always been pleasant to most strangers, but it wasn’t to her even though she’s the stranger we’ve known since the start of time. I’ve come to convince it. Granted it took time, but as the silence billows about the train, the creature is calm. It sees something it doesn’t like but has learned to forgive the stranger; forgive her for the skin she was born into, forgive her for the bones that make up her physique. I offer a soft smile to the creature in appreciation.

The stranger is her own undoing and salvation synchronically, but she couldn’t have known over the sound of the beast’s writhing and whispering. I sit across from her as the sun rises behind us and stare into myself. I do not avert my eyes, but offer a sigh. She is a stranger I am intimately familiar with, and I find myself becoming more fond of her each time we sit together in silence. We can only look at each other in the same instance, but that is enough to find her eyes and tell her it is okay as the creature quietly agrees.

Behind the mirror is a girl I don't recognize.

She looks like me,

but there's just something off about her eyes.

She smiles in all the photos,

that's when she looks the most like me,

but that beautiful smile goes away when all the doors close.

When the moon is out,

and she takes off her mask,

she's the type of girl that no one wants to be around.

She hates herself,

and all the goofy things she does,

but in the moment, she wouldn't trade the smiles and laughs for anything else.

Because she loves herself during the daytime,

when she believes that other people love her too,

but she gets lonely in her bedroom, crying late into the night.

Sometimes she wishes she could disappear,

be someone else-

She wants to be anyone besides the girl behind the mirror.

When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.

Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.

But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.

So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!

I was scratching again.

-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.

The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.

Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.

If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.

A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.

When I look in the mirror, I sometimes wonder what my reflection sees when she looks at me. This woman, who is me and yet not me, who stops existing the moment I step away from the mirror. Does she see everything I see when I look at her? Does she notice my pimples, my stretch marks, and my fat rolls? Does she marvel at how old I’ve gotten or how much weight I’ve gained? Does she critique every outfit I try on as much as I do?

Sometimes I think that she must. After all, she is me.

And yet, she never abandons me. No matter where I go or what I look like, I know my twin will always appear when I step in front of a mirror.

Maybe my reflection sees more in me than I see in her. Maybe she sees the good in me – my kindness, my optimism, my hope, my love. Maybe she sees all the things that I have been – a daughter, a wife, a sister, a friend, a student, a teacher. Maybe she sees all the things I could be – a canvas before me with splashes of color but still waiting to be completed.

Perhaps it's time to see the woman in the mirror the same way she sees me.

I am the man behind the mirror

I am nameless,

loving to some

a plague for others

i show them what they dont want to see

but mostly i show the truth

i show the truths they are too afraid to accept

i am the reason teenage girls hide

ogling me

ogling themselves

because i can show them whatever i want

but i choose truth

truth is hard

everyone looks at the mirror differently

i create insecurity

i create unworthiness

i create ugliness

i become what i create

hideous

Many have seen themselves

but never me

i am but a figment of their imagination

until

a girl

her name; Madilynn

obnoxiously spelled much like her

no more than sixteen

i despise Madilynn

how can she look at me

smile

shrug

leave

no fear

no hate

shes not attractive

while harsh to say about a child

it astounds me

how

Madilynns friends all gossip

too ugly for anyone

they say

but she

smiles

shrugs

and leaves

how can she not feel pain

the pain that envelops me and all others that view my images

the fear

the insecurity

the longing for change

the jealousy

it shapes each person through childhood

wishing to look like someone else

to not look like themselves

twisting away from my creations

from the truth

taking it into their own hands to craft my creations

A desperate bid for control

while i show truth

i do make exceptions

for those who deserve it

and i make sure everyone hates me

and if they dont

i take it into my own hands

a few slight alterations

months in the gym

tens of thousands spent on surgery

all gone

its nice having self esteem in my grasp

i dont even have the freedom of a name

why not steal their identity

and Madilynn

so happy

how could she be

editing her image

nothing

no rage

no despair

no insecurity

no crying

but how?

thats when i hear

Why is she like this

and she cries

seeing her matching black eyes

once not doctored by my own manipulation

fury at someone who could withstand my wrath

gone

Perhaps i am the man behind the mirror

the man of ether

the monster under the bed

the nightmares

the horrors

the pain

the suffering

but perhaps

I can just be the man behind the mirror

a protector

viewer of the truth

Silver glass, seeing myself.

But not my true self.

What I see is a mask, a mask put on for other people.

Behind the mask is the real me.

The me that is insecure about my loud personality,

The me that is insecure about the stretch marks on my legs,

The me that is insecure about my stomach not being flat,

The me that is insecure about the size of my thighs,

The me that is insecure about my colorful personality.

What lies behind the mirror is the truth, who I really am.