The monster used to be under the bed-
Now it hides in the mirror.
The glass is intact,
But it cuts deeper than anything.

Chapstick used to be the only cosmetic you owned-
Now makeup covers your face.
Meant to hide a million imperfections,
Ones only you can see

Drawings used to be on the paper-
Now they are all over your wrists.
Made not with crayons, but with a knife.
A way to feel, to hurt.

Dessert used to be a reward after dinner,
Now it disgusts you.
A punishment,
Causing horrible thoughts to boil over.

The monster follows you,
Out of the mirror-
Every day,
In your mind.

Inescapable.

If a mirror could fall in love,
It would be you.
If a mirror could stare for hours,
It would stare at you.
If a mirror was to show something,
It would show the light reflected from you.
If that mirror had to introduce itself,
It would introduce you… to you.

Acne,
Such a pain, reminding me,
Of my imperfections.
Please leave me be,
This insurrection.
Entrapping me,
In captivity.
Such misery,
Every time I look,
In the mirror,
Another reminder.
Such imperfection,
Fills me with trepidation.
Why must you torture me?
Why can't you just leave me be?

I wish my face was a mirror,
not to see myself, but you,
would wear your smile and laughter,
had these beautiful brown eyes too.

I wish my voice was an echo,
a whisper of your words,
not my own clumsy syllables,
but the warm sound a soul prefers.

I wish I moved the way you do,
effortless, not thinking twice.
Then maybe I’d have your charm,
and spoke with ease to anyone.

But if I were your echo,
your reflection, your twin,
the world would see me,
But,
would you?

i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.

it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.

there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.

the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.

i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.

and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.

a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.

she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—

she’s just a scandal.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

Lines, shapes and colours is all you observe
but through you I learn the intricate details of my soul.
Lately I don't recognise the darkness deep inside my eyes.
Once shining with glimmer,
now consuming any sight of light.

Why do you betray me?
If I dust, If I clean, constantly take heed of the state your in.
Will you reflect that which you once used to?
Are my attempts futile or do I amuse you?

Again I ask, mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

A scared little girl, running from responsibility.
Seeking anyone to take blame for the troubles of her own making.
I can't change that which is apparent, my purpose is to reflect.

If the one looking is displeased, cover your eyes and think.
Before a day comes in which all you are left with is regret.

Io! Maestro dell'essere,
mente a scacchi,
pronta a muovere la prossima pedina
con apatia e ordine. Ordine.

Non implorerò, mai, di avere
un nuovo paio di occhi
che non vedano in bianco e nero,
magari solo meno ingenui, idioti.

Ormai non mi vedo più nello specchio:
spalle, alzate.
Schiena, inarcata.
Capo chino. Pietoso. Indegno!

** già tutto quello che mi serve:
mani di pietra e velluto,
una fronte, rugosa, che parla,
risate tra il folle, e il nobile. Nobile.

///

Me! Master of being,
chess mind,
ready to move the next pawn
with apathy and order. Order.

I will, never, beg to have
a new pair of eyes
that do not see in black and white,
maybe just less naive, idiotic.

I no longer see myself in the mirror:
shoulders, raised.
Back, arched.
Head bowed. Pitiful. Unworthy!

I already have everything I need:
hands of stone and velvet,
a forehead, wrinkled, that speaks,
laughter between the madman, and the noble. Noble.

She walks up to me curiously,
Head-tilted; her innocent eyes stare into me.
Constellations on her face - I count one, two, three blinks followed by a grin.
A child sees herself for the first time.

Now she’s taller, her face a little broader
she looks into me;
a smile replaced by a frown, she pulls back
inspecting every line that marks her skin

then returns with paint which she brushes over her skin.
It marks her eyes, her lips; her cheeks
full of pink as she admires her work.

The paint never washes off, you see, it stains.
She returns to me regularly, rivers of ink running down her face,
her eyes clouded; the illusion of beauty hangs in the air.

Society’s product stands before me, reflections of her.

-thelostpoetjournals