Scrutiny. That's the world I would use to embody a mirror.

Not vanity, or beauty, or even reflection. But scrutiny. 

For many, that's all that a mirror holds. Scrutiny. 

I've learned that when the first mirrors were carved out of obsidian rock,

They were breathtaking. 

Image never looking yourself in your eyes. 

Never truly seeing yourself. 

Before mirrors, that was reality.

Now, we look in the mirror, not to connect with ourselves, 

Not to look ourselves in the eyes, not to reflect, but to scrutinize.

But I don't want to do that anymore.

I want to look in the mirror and connect

And love myself and be myself and feel beautiful.

So I did.

Instead of scrutinizing myself

I searched.

Search for that beauty, a soul,

My soul.

And then, I found it.

I found everything I was looking for,

And more.

Found it behind the fear of rejection,

Mingling with trepidation.

My eyes.

Windows to my soul.

A confused blend of brown, green, orange.

Patterned, flawlessly

like the swirls in obsidian rock.

I might not be flawless,

I might not be perfection,

But my eyes are.

They’re flawlessly imperfect.

They couldn’t choose a color, so they compromised.

They reflect the weather, my mood, my surroundings.

They reflect me.

Like a mirror, or a slab of obsidian rock,

They reflect me. 

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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