I have a hate-hate relationship with mirrors.

It’s a self-image thing, most likely.

Sometimes I don’t realize I’ve been avoiding my own reflection until I catch a glimpse of it.

Someone I don’t know is peering back.

Judging me.

Wait, that IS me.

Yes, I’m judging my reflection. It doesn’t align with what I’m feeling.

Have I spent enough time practicing not being ugly?

Did I brush my hair? Does it look like it?

Is there something in my teeth? How long has it been there? I can’t remember the last time I checked. The mirror is rarely my friend.

Then, there’s the other me.

She takes a lot of selfies. LIKE, A LOT.

She deletes 90% of them. Then, the other 10%.

She can’t capture an image of who she feels like.

If she doesn’t think she looks like a gargoyle, she thinks she is gorgeous. There is no in-between. The captured image isn’t what she sees in her mind, so there’s a filter, cropping, more contrast. Editing until she’s unrecognisable.

And then the realization that the image no longer reflects the human, but what the human is feeling.


I can go weeks without wearing makeup. This is likely during part of the cycle where I don’t see myself.

At some point, I look up.

I realize that girl needs to take a moment.

Eye shadow? Lipstick? Is someone recognizable hiding in there?

No. The girl is gone.

This lady is old.

The glitter falls into the creases.

The makeup is scrubbed away.

The redness. Sorrow.

Try again when you’re someone you recognize when you pass a mirror.

You can’t make her appear.

One thought on “Mirrors.

  1. Pingback: Identity. – borderline butterfly

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