WHAT DOES THE MIRROR SEE?
On the foggy reflected surface, I turn my clear vision away. Choosing
to believe in my sight and not in the echo of what I have deemed unsightly, like a festering wound tinged with rot.
I hide from my reflection, like a beaten dog hides from its master. Scared that these scars are just a few. A few too many or a few too little? I choose to evade what could give me a sum of my pain.
What do I see when I look into the mirror? A question I can only answer in the fragments of my pride and from the still water, I hide.
What will the mirror see when it looks at me? A shallow husk attempting to be grain. Trying to create pain where there is none, an attempt to appear not so lame. To paint scars on fresh skin, to deceive the world into thinking “oh, she had seen! “
What have these boring plain eyes seen? Secondhand experiences of things. She is the jester at the court recounting tales of legends and myth. She hides from the mirror because it reflects the shaft she will always be. An impostor puffing and parading as king.
How many self battles and broken mirrors can subdue the envy to be riddled with scars? with the scars at least she could say she had lived, bearing the receipts of her experiences proudly on her skin.
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