mir • ror | \ ˈmir-ər \
noun
i. you can’t remember the last time you took an honest look at yourself. you painted snapchat filters on your reflection until your face glowed with artificial moonlight, blemishes airbrushed away with dog ears and flower crowns woven into your hair.
ii. you skate on thin ice; one negative thought and it shatters beneath your feet. you think you look like an angel or the most hideous monster ever created. words lift up your cheekbones or drag bags down your face. they treat you as a blank slate for them to project their insecurities. look away from the horror they’ve created. so you stick post-its all over the bathroom walls until they’re covered in smiley faces. turn yourself into dust. you look better that way.
iii. but silver can’t reflect the stars in your skin or the galaxies in your breath. the sun rises with your eyes. you paint constellations with every footstep and i want to name each and every one. you don’t need a camera to capture the nebulas that drip from your lips. this is your day; not theirs.
