To be honest, overtime i look in the mirror I see someone different.
There's this girl.
She looks the same at a glance; black hair, brown skin, brown eyes. The same mold, but every now and again as I look closer, she’s not the same girl from yesterday.
Sometimes her hair is straight with a slight bounce on the bottom, or curly and ruffled. Sometimes her hair is streaked with rouge red fire, sometimes it’s an abyss of dark swirls amidst a sea of black.
Her skin fluctuates between light brown chilled ice cafe or sultry dark caramel freshly baked by the sun.
This girl has a rounded nose that squishes. Her eye brows are sometimes bushy, sometimes thin, or sometimes heaven sent from a model (or just a really good wax). Plump lips which have seen every shade of color in the rainbow from seductive red to party pink, even the occasional midnight black. These lips can speak words of encouragement and wisdom, spit sass, throw shade, pout to get their way. They can tremble, but they can also smile.
I see her face every day. When I look into her eyes, it’s the eyes. Each time I gaze into them, they’re different. I must stress the fact that they’re never the same as the day before.
Sometimes, when I look into the mirror and watch her eyes I can see that there’s morning. It’s a bright sunny good morning. Not just in the time of day, but in her heart. I can see them glisten with excitement. The brown eyes are bright, excited.
They say, “I am confident. I am going to grab the day and kiss it as hard as I can with all that I am. Adventure awaits me in every step I take, around every corner. I will rise. I will conquer. I am fearless!”
The brown is like a sweet sugar, like fudge. ****. So full of energy and sunlight. Nothing can go wrong. The energy reaches from her eyes down to the corners of her lips pulling them up to her eyes. This energy wants to share itself with her whole being… She is smiling.
Sometimes when I look into the mirror and gaze into her eyes, they’re warm. Oooooh, and soft, like a gentle summer breeze. Mmm. they’re comforting like a cup of hot cocoa on a sharp winter night. Loving. Right down to the bones. They could hug any cold feeling way and melt you down like butter in a low heated pan, slow, gentle, calm. I listen to these eyes, with comfort, “Sure not everything is where you want it, love, but it’s okay. Everything is gonna be all right. We’re gonna make it.” Simple words is all it takes to reach out the meaning from these eyes. They reach past the smile and melt into the heart. Slow and comforting. Tender. Maternal. Loving.
But every now again, the sunny skies in her eyes will fade as dark clouds roll in.
I try to stare in the mirror, grasping for the pretty girl who once stood there, but she’s gone. The more I stare, the more something in my aches and I look away. There would be no make up. No smiles. An abundance of red but not a passionate fiery rouge, or a warm hearted maroon.
She had red in her skin, on her nose, in the eyes. Her face was flushed. Her shoulders were heaving up and down. Part of me wished it were from laughter, but part of me knew. Part of me knew the jagged up and down heaving and huffing, moved her body like a boat lost on a stormy sea. Dark ominous clouds dug into her skin, just beneath her eyes like bruises. Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched. The longer I tried to stare at her, the more I lost the girl with the curly hair, fiery lips, adventure in her steps, mischief in her gaze. The longer I searched in her skin, in her eyes, the girl with the tender smile like hugs, the girl whose words were like a warm hearth, she was lost.
The girl with the broken heart stood before me. Heavy. Sinking. Drowning. Begrudgingly, she picked up a brush and began to paint a facade over the darkness. She picked up the concealer, dabbed on the foundation, winged her eyeliner, and covered each bruise, each red splotch, each tear until there was no trace of the internal battle she faced. No sadness, no tears, all calamity covered by a blanket of cosmetics, a mask in plain sight.
But if you stare hard enough, stare into her eyes, reach past the blush, the picture perfect lipstick, under the perfect curl mascara, above the eyeliner, right into whatever is left of her soul, it makes you wonder if the girl with the rouge streaked hair ever existed? if there was really hot cocoa or just left out cold bitter coffee? Was there really such a person who craved adventure? Was there ever such a girl who loved so tenderly? Was she always like this? Was she always wearing broken pieces of shattered mirrors for a mask? Was she just reflecting what might’ve been, what could’ve been…
But never was?