The Mirror
Not just a reflection of
my appearance,
but a reflection
of me.
Of my eyes–
smeared mascara,
running down,
blurry vision
from what I did
with that one guy.
the silence of regret
is heavy,
and real,
and there,
staring back at me.
Of my lips–
curved up with a smile
the whole day,
but now too tired
to hold itself up,
exhaling,
sharp,
shaky breaths,
thick with the
aroma of vodka.
Of my outfit–
it’s cute, I guess.
but somehow
all my cutest outfits
always
end up
off.
Of my stomach,
that people say
has a baby in it.
they call me
whore,
slut,
hoe.
and the mirror
agrees with them.
The mirror,
a reflection
of me–
my
face,
body,
life
It knows
everything–
secrets
that I hide,
but still spill out.
feelings I ignore
but bubble up
in my stomach
and explode,
like a can of soda
shaken a little too hard
I look at myself,
but i don't see myself.
I'm the girl who’s
scared of boys,
a rule follower,
teacher’s pet,
Right?
I see not her,
but a corrupted monster,
stuck In
a 15-year old girl’s
body.
a body that
isn't mine,
but theirs.
What happened?
Threats,
rumors,
whispers
in the hallways,
lots of eyes
on me
five years ago,
nobody would even look
in my direction.
Now,
they’ve looked at every
crevice,
curve,
part
of
me,
dissected it
until
all that's left is
vacant space.
Others,
who haven't touched my skin
but have ripped apart
my reputation–
at school,
at home,
everywhere
I look in the mirror,
i’m composed now,
standing straight,
but the mirror knows.
it knows.
it's a front.
it knows
about where i was
last night–
locked in a room
with a guy
i'm not even dating,
drunk,
naked,
stupid.
It’s funny–
i feel less alone
staring at my own reflection,
in my bathroom,
at 3 a.m.,
than in a crowd of people
who don't know me,
but know of me,
of what i've done
or what they've heard
i've done.
They make jokes
to my face,
behind my back.
but the biggest joke isn't
their words.
but the reflection
in the glass.
She isn’t me,
but she is.
and she’s staring straight
back at me,
reminding me
who I truly am.