Mirrors

Mirrors lie—

Or at best, they tell half-truths;

Because a mirror can’t see what lies beneath—

A mirror can’t reflect my soul.

 

I look into my mirror.

I stare into my eyes.

What do I see?

Let’s start from the top:

 

Perched upon my head I see a mess of blondish-brownish hair.

Hair that is not straight—but is not wavy either;

It is straight—then a bump—then straight again.

Hair that (kind of like me) doesn’t quite know what it wants to be.

 

From my hair we flow to my pointed nose.

So pointed, it resembles the nose of a witch (or at least that is what I am told).

But I like it because I got it from my mother—the most beautiful woman in the world.

Yes, I like it because it makes me resemble her.

 

Next, to my dimpled chin we go,

My “butt chin” as I have been told.

But I love it because it came from my father-- and my father is an incredible man;

So to see a part of him reflected in me feels like quite an honor.

 

From my chin let’s go to my flabby arms,

And my big belly,

And my “thunder thighs”

All the way down to my oddly-shaped hairy toes.

 

Yes, looking in the mirror I see many imperfections.

I’m imperfect in almost every sense of the word;

But (strangely) I’m ok with that.

My imperfections make me who I am.

 

But still, I believe mirrors lie—

They can’t see inside my soul.

But if they could see,

What would they reflect back at me?

 

When I look at my soul, I see a girl:

A girl who is kind;

A girl who is strong;

A girl who is talented;

 

A girl who is smart;

A girl who is creative;

A girl who is loved;

A girl who is—above all—happy.

 

A girl who is happy with herself—

Despite what others may say.

Yes, I am imperfect—

But I think that is ok.

 

Perhaps it is my imperfections that make me so perfect.

No; perfect is not the right word—for perfect I am not.

But I am unique; I am beautiful;

And in my own perfect kind of imperfect way—

I am flawless.

 

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