On her bedroom wall is where I’ve always hung.
Since her birth, I’ve watched her grow.
From the beautiful, babbling baby, to the tantrum-throwing toddler, to the charismatic, cheeky child,
I was there to show the truth.
I reflected her face, as she shaped it into wild, silly expressions.
I mirrored the results of her curious, young mind and her mother’s red lipstick.
I’ve never lied to her. It’s impossible for me to do so.
I can only show the truth,
And she’s always believed me, up until recently.

More beautiful than before, she’s almost done growing now.
However, the silly faces have turned to ones filled with disgust.
Her face is hidden behind a self-applied mask of makeup.
Hours are now spent in front of me,
Eyes full of hate for her body and longing for another one.
So many tears she’s spilled, caused by false ideas of beauty that are engraved into her mind.
So many meals she’s skipped, trying to become an individual that will never, and has never existed.
Why can’t she believe me, instead of the shams thrown at her?
Doesn’t she remember mirrors can only show the truth?