To the young girl frowning in the mirror,

 

I refuse to live in the blinking shadow,   

And I shine when they paint me gray.

I trap within the portrait that shows,

break through the mirror and say:

 

My hair is

Not a pillow for their fingertips to rest.

Coils of delicately resilient elephant grass,

My hair is

Not for their jagged shears to carve away,

For their pesky stares to infest.

 

Instead,

Each strand soaks the world dry

filtering my brain with living sounds, breathing images;

Wisdom that helps me fly.

 

My eyes are

not labels for their filing folders.

Burning hazel-bright against the black of my skin

My eyes are

Not unwonted inkblots

from a jam in the cartridge holder.

 

Instead,

Each glance reflects the wonder and mystery of those who came before me;

Ingredients framed in each sprinkle of cinnamon and sage,

Experiencing all the world has to see.

 

My body is

Not for their sights to linger.

Curves and thick thighs and broad shoulders,

My body is

Not what they want featured on their magazines, on their runways-

They who hook the world round their pointing finger.

 

Instead,

Each limb is whittled from tree bark: solid arms, to carry the weight

of the world, built legs, to run the distance- to beat their race,

And soft hands, heavy with desire to create.

 

So young girl,

 

Know that if you smash the mirror and pick at the glass

That within each glittering shard, true beauty resides.

Build your own picture of who you see you as

And smile at your you-ness with pride.

 

Sincerely,

 

the girl smiling back