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–