Mirror, Mirror, In My Hands?

Mirror, Mirror, in my hands,

Why does your reflection feel like a test?

It’s easy for others to brag about theirs, holding beauty like a trophy,

like a gentle blessing being pressed into their chests. 

But mine feels just so unfinished,

missing pieces I can’t seem to name.

Maybe it’s the “perfect” body I lack,

the skinny waist, the slim face,

the kind of beauty the world standardizes,

until everyone else looks worthy besides me.

Maybe more makeup could hide me,

Hide the imperfections I trace with tired eyes,

though no amount of covering

can silence the feeling

that I’m a walking imperfection myself.

I wish that I was pretty.

Pretty enough to fit the standards.

Pretty enough to make people stay.

The kind of pretty that turns strangers into friends,

the kind of pretty that makes my crush never look at another girl again.

I want to look into the mirror

Look without hearing cruel words echo back at me,

Without searching for flaws everytime

I look at myself.

Maybe the mirror was never honest.

Maybe it taught me to break myself

apart before anyone else could.

And maybe one day, 

I’ll stop measuring my worth in my flaws and reflections.

Maybe the thing that has to break…

isn’t me- but that mirror in my hands.