Mirrors strung about
Always freaked me out.
I just didn’t want
To know myself,
Quite that well.
I didn’t need every dent and dimple
Shining back at me
From 5 different angles
Rubbing my imperfections
In my eyes.
The only thing worse than mirrors
Were the faces on magazine covers.
Staring up at me
In their airbrushed happiness.
Chiding me
For having the audacity
To wear a pimple on my chin
And not cover it up
With 5 layers of foundation
And zap it every night
With zap-a-zit cleansers.
The magazine face is mad at me
For not caring about this chin pimple,
Not spending half my fast-food
Paychecks running to the store for the newest
Face cleansing fad,
And more make-up.
The magazine face is mad at me
Because I don’t want to look like it,
Don’t want to wear an airbrushed smile all day.
I want to cry as hard as I like, whenever I want,
Without my face falling off.
I used to turn them all over.
The magazine faces,
They’re never on the back.
Every waiting room I sat in…
I couldn’t stand it.
I’d squirm and twist and turn
Hoping they couldn’t see me.
But they had eyes.
So in the end I left magazines turned over.
This was wrong, I know.
Very wrong to not
Have that magazine face staring up, into
Our brightly lit culture
Waiting for the next victim
To cast a “You’re not good enough”
Bewitchment on.
