The Mirror And The Lie

The mirror is silent,
but it never lies—
or so I was told.

Yet every time I stand before it,
I see someone who doesn’t belong,
a face that does not fit,
a shape that takes up too much space
or not enough.

The glass does not soften,
does not forgive.
It carves me into something unrecognizable,
pulls me apart,
strand by strand,
until nothing is left but pieces
that don’t fit together.

I touch my reflection,
fingers ghosting over glass,
searching for something—
for someone—
worth looking at.
But the girl in the mirror
only stares back, hollow-eyed,
wearing a body she does not know
how to love.

I have studied this face for years,
have learned every angle,
every flaw,
every story my skin tells
in whispers of not enough,
never enough.

I have stood here,
shoulders hunched beneath the weight
of my own self-loathing,
watching the mirror tighten its grip,
watching the years settle into the cracks
where confidence should have been.

If I could step through—
if I could reach inside
and pull out the version of me
that the world sees,
would she be softer?
Would she be worthy?
Would she deserve the love
I have never learned to give?

I press my palm against the cold glass,
but she does not answer.
She only waits,
as if she knows
I will come back again tomorrow,
and the day after,
and the day after that.

Because this is our ritual—
she and I.
A quiet war with no victor.
A truth I do not want to hear.
A lie I have always believed.

And the mirror,
unforgiving and still,
holds me in its cruel embrace,
until I look away first.