Mirror on the wall, girl on the floor
I.
I found myself yet again
standing in front of that damned piece of reflective glass,
mounted on the windowless wall of
the room in which I tend to torture myself.
Staring far too intensely
at the minute imperfections and flaws,
hating them for marring the beauty I have deemed necessary
to shape this
identity.
II.
Eyes,
glazed eyes,
tiny shrunken pupils
encircled in a dull iris more apt
to absorb light rather than
reflect it.
Tired eyes donning
tiny shrunken pupils,
eyes decorated by lines of
age,
searching for that which cannot be
seen
in that damned piece of reflective glass
mounted on the windowless wall.
A nose,
flesh comprised of cartilage and bone,
septum and nostrils,
the shape of which
can
determine so much.
A nose,
its primary purpose to detect a variety of
odors-
yet mine has
only been able to detect the putrid scents of my own
decay.
Hair,
strands of filamentous protein,
sprouting forth dead from living follicles,
the most cared for of all non-living things.
Mine only looked oily and
unkempt
in that damned piece of reflective glass.
And I wished so
to no longer concern
myself
with the state of my perished
fibers-
but their importance has been too deeply engrained in me to reject.
III.
I found myself still fixed in a single spot on the un-swept
floor
of the room where I spend too much of my time.
Despised all that I saw,
hated the reflection,
feared the image staring back at
me
because I did not know it.
Unable to recognize what the shell hosts
I am at once awed and terrified
by the naked stark rawness of me.
Tried to walk away,
but trapped myself in that damned piece of reflective
glass,
in a windowless room,
with my two feet anchored on the floor,
holding myself hostage.
A prisoner to a party that accepts no
ransom
as long as age continues to take that
which I have tried so desperately
to hold
onto.
I found myself yet again
standing in front of that damned piece of reflective glass,
mounted on the windowless wall of
the room in which I tend to torture myself.
Staring far too intensely
at the minute imperfections and flaws,
hating them for marring the beauty I have deemed necessary
to shape this
identity.
II.
Eyes,
glazed eyes,
tiny shrunken pupils
encircled in a dull iris more apt
to absorb light rather than
reflect it.
Tired eyes donning
tiny shrunken pupils,
eyes decorated by lines of
age,
searching for that which cannot be
seen
in that damned piece of reflective glass
mounted on the windowless wall.
A nose,
flesh comprised of cartilage and bone,
septum and nostrils,
the shape of which
can
determine so much.
A nose,
its primary purpose to detect a variety of
odors-
yet mine has
only been able to detect the putrid scents of my own
decay.
Hair,
strands of filamentous protein,
sprouting forth dead from living follicles,
the most cared for of all non-living things.
Mine only looked oily and
unkempt
in that damned piece of reflective glass.
And I wished so
to no longer concern
myself
with the state of my perished
fibers-
but their importance has been too deeply engrained in me to reject.
III.
I found myself still fixed in a single spot on the un-swept
floor
of the room where I spend too much of my time.
Despised all that I saw,
hated the reflection,
feared the image staring back at
me
because I did not know it.
Unable to recognize what the shell hosts
I am at once awed and terrified
by the naked stark rawness of me.
Tried to walk away,
but trapped myself in that damned piece of reflective
glass,
in a windowless room,
with my two feet anchored on the floor,
holding myself hostage.
A prisoner to a party that accepts no
ransom
as long as age continues to take that
which I have tried so desperately
to hold
onto.