Mirror

Self-reflection

I see her, cocking her head from one side to the other, eyes narrow with glimpses of disappointment.

Her lips coil, and she whispers, “What happened?” as she solemnly notices the changes time has burdened me with.

Explanation fails me as the envy of her beauty threads a needle, sewing my lips shut.

My eyes are immediately drawn to the space that exists between her legs, the absence of heaviness in the spots where it lies for me now.

Her complexion resembles untouched porcelain, safe from the cracks of trauma and dust from age.

Her presence, serving as a reminder of what has been, is laden with shadows whispering curses of disgust.

I look down at the body that serves my soul now, comparing the stark differences between the two of us.

My fingernails dig into my palms as tight fists of self-hatred begin to form.

I reach forward, fingertips grazing the cold surface as if touching her would make me whole again.

She only watches, eyes filled with pity, a relic of a time that no longer belongs to me.

My knuckles meet the glass, force splintering through its surface.

A spiderweb blooms across her face, a jagged mosaic of all I have lost.

I gather the shards, pressing them into my flesh, tracing the soft places, the unwanted weight, slicing away the pieces that never belonged.

It is not her reflection that begins to fade, it is the illusion of what I thought I should be.