A contemplative piece on perception
|I like to make faces in the mirror, behind closed doors,|
When no one else can see. Expressions unlike myself,
Yet unexpectedly there in a blink, with dry, mouthed words
To arguments I'll never have or comebacks to insults
I've never heard, toward myself or otherwise. Surely,
It's my own fault for never dwelling on the coarser
Aspects of life which hypnotize the rest of the world.
To be contented feels unpatriotic, lazy and dull. Yet it is
Those times, close up at the mirror, glasses off, that
I truly look at myself - see every pore, freckle, flake and hair -
Wonder what math makes a woman beautiful.
When I was younger, I would go a week without
My reflection - too short to observe anything but
The ceiling and not caring enough to climb
The counter to see what my hair looked like.
Now, I can only see six inches in front of my face before
The lines blend, the colors smear, and even fresh scabs
Disappear. Stepping back I think, I must look prettier this way,
Frizzy hair vanished into the background, a blurred picture,
But less intense, with eyes now too far away to discern