I want smooth curves, a stunning side profile, and a glimmer at every turn.

I want that efficiency, I want to be highly maintained, and similarly as rare.

I am Filipino, but I am American made.

I want the body of a Tesla.

I wish I could shut up.

I wish I could talk about other People instead of myself.

I wish my sentences didn't start with I.

I wish I was as quiet as a Tesla.

I can't describe the way blood runs through my engine like Oil in a car's veins.

If my skin gleamed like a satin paint Job, I'd smooth over the tiger stripes.

I'd color correct the giraffe mosaic and fine tune the scales down.

I wish I looked like a Tesla.

I wish my Logo was the bubblegum cap on a Kitten's snout.

Its triangle nose The piercing icon on the forefront of a real work of art.

I want the body of a Tesla, but then again-

I can buy one of those.

I can't buy one of mine

Reflecting heaven’s canopy;

The lapis looking glass

Pools of azure therapy

Truth’s waters, dare I bask?

Gold wings pierce past partitions

Glinting silvered two-way mirrors

Revealing introspections

Honesty, conquering fears

Flooding fallow, fertile soil;

Moor mysteries, unearthed

Pearlescent, rainbow rings of oil

Conceived in tears; new birth

Evaporates in clouds, ascent

Now captured in love’s flask

The opaque veil ’tween earth is rent;

My spirit’s eyes, unmasked

***

photo credit: Patrick Lundy dot com

I always hate it.

I see the same thing.

It’s wrong. She is wrong.

She has just been a cover all along.

But she is mine. My image.

My true self, a mirage.

Plastic surgery is a bit of a different task.

It’s not simply removing a mask.

Too young, they say,

Too pure, they tell,

Too soon, they insist.

But I’m... me?

Right?

Is that ... alright?

That person in the glass is just a face.

I’m told I’m such a disgrace.

I like to think of myself as a caterpillar.

I simply haven’t become a butterfly yet.

But they don’t know that I’m still trapped in that cocoon.

They think I should fly, just as they do.

They tell me it’s a phase, what am I, the moon?

I know I’ll never be the same as you.

I can’t fly.

I don’t know how.

But they make me... why?

What else can I do?

So she pretends she can.

Flying without wings is awfully tiring.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

Love bursts its seams

as she ponders reflection

mirror speaks no lies

of that she’s sure.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

The beauty she sees

not seen by others

for she’s perceived

as haughty and vain

She’s so vain – yeah oh yeah

The power she feels

flows over the brim

flooding her from sight

of all except her.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

She cannot see

she’s destructive to all

primping and preening

to gain their approval.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

Wants attention

with inane standards

feels no remorse

as she tromps on others.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

No empathy felt

when her unkind words

cause pain to those

she happens to confront.

She’s so vain – yeah, oh yeah

Through own looking glass

she only sees glamour

reflection is marred

cracks are spreading.

I bet she thinks this poem is about her, yeah oh yeah!

Those eyes that noticed you.

That nose that followed your perfumes.

Those lips that have wandered to the strangest places.

The hairline that recedes with our years together.

That skin, wrinkled with forgotten smiles.

Those ears that await your call.

In my mirror, your face looks back.

You never tired of telling others

all the ways I’d let you down,

from childhood years to teenage troubles,

so much blame to throw around.

You asked yourself out loud why I was good at school and bad at home,

but never stopped to ruminate

on how you treated me alone.

I was your biggest disappointment,

no matter how hard I would try,

so after learning it was futile

I simply gave up asking why.

And as I grew cold, you grew colder,

as I retreated, so did you,

and as we bitterly grew older,

the rift between us, it grew too.

Now that I am grown and healing,

I can look back through the years,

it wasn’t me that you were hating,

I was your legacy, your mirror.

#mirror @Jade04 #mom #catharsis

I stand naked in front of the mirror,

And what do I see?

A tummy that protrudes,

More than I think it should be.

Breasts that are veined and sagging,

It feels like almost to my knees.

Flesh that appears every day,

To look more wrinkly.

But that imperfect tummy carried life,

Someone who loves her Mommy.

The breasts were her nourishment,

As my beautiful girl relied on me.

That wrinked skin,

It tells my life story.

That image in the mirror,

Is flawed perfectly.

Who's looking at who?

I wonder, as we stand there and maddog each other

Everyone always talks about the importance of having nice things

Working diligently will ensure a successful position as a member of society

So they say

Sprinkle that attitude with faith to hide the taste of subservience and you're living the American scheme

But here I am, and I can't figure which one of us real

Is there even any difference between the two of us?

The more I think about it the less I care cause it all feels the same

My reflection is of more concern to me than the reality of belonging to a colony of humans all vying to be the first one to do the same shit as someone else

Like a post

by the track,

Like the idiot

that looked

back and 

stopped...

while all the

world rolled

out its golden

welcome mat

...I stand

too frozen

to lift a hat

to the glass

of the evening

gown that's

rapidly

trailing

passed

Most times, I don’t look in the mirror. Not when I brush my teeth or comb my hair or apply fingertips of moisturizer, not even when I slick mascara over my lashes. It’s not for a lack of mirrors- I have no shortage of those. It’s simply because most times, I prefer to avoid the girl looking back at me.

She’s too volatile, too unpredictable, mercurial. The girl in the mirror is a kite at high altitude; buffeted upwards and forwards by pleasant breezes on the good days, hurricaned and nipped at and tail-diving back towards the unforgiving ground on the bad. The girl in the mirror does not have a set schedule in place for her good days, her bad days. She does not give indications for when she will be happy and when she will be sad and when she will be overwhelmed by those million little subtle emotions in between. The girl in the mirror does as she pleases, when she pleases.

And the girl outside of it does not like to take that uncertain risk of checking in on her.