I can’t look in the mirror
and see her perfect features –
her deep blue eyes
with rings of green,
her full lips,
her long brown hair
that’s messy, but somehow
falls exactly into place.

I can’t look in the mirror
that hangs in her personal space
with neat, nice fixtures
of porcelain,
inside her modest house
which is clean, functional,
relaxing, but most of all –
safe.

I can’t look in the mirror
which has only seen petty fears,
black tears from expensive mascara
running down a shallow face
over a silly matter
that can be easily erased.

I can’t look in the mirror
that doesn’t have a history,
that was simply hung
with no reason other than beauty,
that hasn’t a story of its own,
nor has ever witnessed one
worth telling.

I can’t look in the mirror
and see the reflected lies,
the surface that’s shown,
the only one that’s known.

I can’t look in the mirror
and see myself as I truly am.

I can’t look in the mirror.