Girl in the Mirror: Reality for Most

I am in the make up set that you bought. That costed you so much money and piled up onto your bills this month.

You see me shining, flipping my colors in front of your eyes, glaring with fire in comparison to your pale, untouched skin.

And you have to come and get me. You have to find your way to have me.

There is no other option. You do want to be more beautiful than the face that claims to be yours, right?

I am in the music that the boy on the street sang. The one you passed by on your way to work. When you rolled down your window to hear what was the big fuss some crowd cheered about, when you heard the notes hit perfectly and you wondered, “Why can’t that be me.”

Then you rode off with your expensive sports car, leaving me in my raw, desired beauty.

You see me in the letter you received from Princeton few years ago. The letter that kindly refused your admission, the letter that wished you the best in your life.

Someone later on found me in the trash can that day, torn and stomped all over, grilled with passionate hatred and anger.

I fly over the boyfriend who has claimed to love you no matter what. The unconditional love handed over to you without you ever asking for it. The relationship you’d always dreamed of.

The man you believe you do not deserve, and you find yourself kissing another man one night to prove to yourself that this is what you deserve. That you never deserve love that strong or compassion that real.

So you need to find a way out.

You see me in the award given to that girl you hated so much since middle school. The one said to be printed out for the most accomplished student of the year.

The one award you’d been going for all year.

I’m the image of the lady who walked by an hour ago at the coffee shop. The one with lean, strong legs, and beautiful curves. The one who looked perfect without even trying.

The one who probably could deserve your man. The one who probably would have won an award you’d fought for your whole academic career, the one who probably had a voice of an angel.

Then you walk home and cry yourself a river. You get up and walk towards the mirror to see whatever there is to look at.

And you see me, staring back at you. Smiling.

You can’t love me, but you can’t beat me either.

So instead, you let me beat you.



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