When will my reflection show who I am inside?

Upon awakening, Face blinks forgotten dreams
off her eyelashes, still heavy with the winter’s frost.
It’s cold now, so cheeks, nose, and chin are rosey with bloodflow..
Face looks around a room, still unseeing,
but adjusting to light that creeps through a blue window sill,
the hue her imagination sought
when no one else was looking.

Face pretends she knows what she looks like
when she avoids her eye contact in the mirror.
There’s glass where intraconnection should be,
but she can’t tell the difference between pride and apathy.

Face wants what the Face wants,
chasing scenes of false realities that taper nose inwards,
lowers lips, lowers expectations,
sifting chin through hourglass until she no longer has her mouth,
or her words. Her words are unimportant
since Face doesn’t go past her cheekbones.

Face knows what the face knows…
that something about her is queer.
She’s too aware of how ‘it’ rests on a tongue that laps up more images
than there are words in a language that can’t count past two fingers.
So when a Girl in a Face doesn’t think that she looks like one
she thinks of dashing erasers through eyebrows,
through a nose that’s too thick,
through eyes that hold cosmoses,
through lips that kiss hard and softly.

Suddenly, there’s no there there, anymore,
on her Face, blank canvas
stretched over pillars of poor conditioning.
When Neither Face nor Girl put in the effort to learn what the other looks like
they’ll find strangers in mirrors
and windows
and the sides of buildings
or in water that’s still and sun-drenched.

Sometimes Face is as hollow as the Girl that’s inside her.
Sometimes Face doesn’t feel like a Girl at all.
Sometimes Girl must save Face by avoiding her own reflection.
Sometimes nobody can be saved from fixating on imperfection.
Sometimes Girl hates Face but learns to breathe through it,
learning to embrace other names like Sol,
like Sunshine,
like Stardust,
because she and infinity are one in the same,
which is to say, indefinite.
Amorphous instead of transfixed to a singular moment
in which Girl decides to take her name too seriously.

She forgets that Name’s the bottom line of the contract that signed her life away,
that assigned her to a role that she never enjoyed playing in the first place.
Face learns not to care either way when she realizes she was made for weathering,
whether Girl likes it or not.
Face watches as Time turns Girl into Woman
into Old Maid into Gravestone
while she embraces the brunt of it
because Face is stronger than Girl ever was
or could hope to be.

No, Face is not pretty…
Face is fucking beautiful.


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