Mirror Talk

Never feeling pretty in your own skin

Mirror Talk

I learned my face by the way
the mirror hesitated,
like it wanted to soften the truth
before handing it back to me.

I wear this skin like a borrowed coat—
never tailored right,
always tugging at seams no one else sees.
I adjust, I apologize,
I stand a little sideways in photos
hoping angles will love me more than I do.

Pretty always felt like a language
everyone else learned fluently.
I know the alphabet of it—
lashes, smiles, confidence—
but my mouth never shapes the word correctly.

I’ve watched beauty walk past me
and wondered what it feels like
to arrive without trying,
to exist without editing yourself down
to something quieter, smaller, easier to swallow.

Some days I swear this body forgets
it is mine.
Like it’s only a house I clean for others,
never a place I’m allowed to rest.

But still—
this skin has held grief without splitting,
has carried love even when it wasn’t returned,
has stayed when I wanted to disappear.

Maybe that’s a different kind of pretty.
One that doesn’t ask permission from mirrors.
One that survives being unseen
and keeps breathing anyway.

And maybe one day
I won’t need to feel beautiful—
I’ll just feel home.