Mulan sang about not knowing her reflection.
well, the trouble is, I know mine,
it's just that I don't like her at all-
the way her big eyes are like a child's,
stuck in a woman's long face
and a crone's deep blue bags
and a ghost's pale freckles.
I used to think she was pretty,
but most of the time now I just glare a little
and I ask her where the time went,
even though I can see damn well
all the minutes pined away in the shadows
of her cheekbones,
the ones people used to call beautiful,
the ones that they now silently observe and think,
just a little too deep, a little too empty,
and they're right.
God, they're right.
Because she's spent too much time staring in that mirror,
trying to will herself to believe that she is beautiful,
she is worth it,
she is better than what other people think,
and she's been lying all this time.
The pair of us, we've never liked liars,
but I'm staring her in the face
and I'm deciding to tell the truth.
Girl, you've spent years in this misery
and you have nothing to be sad about.
Maybe it's all those damn tears you won't shed.
It's because you know you're uglier when you cry,
when your eyes swell up
and you suddenly have lids that rival your bags,
and your skin is no longer so pale
but for the huge red patches all over
like swollen blood flames.
If it's one thing you're more afraid of than anything,
it's that Daddy lied when he said you were pretty,
and you were a fool for believing.
You were a fool.
Are a fool.
Those swollen, patchy cheeks might pass for motley,
might as well,
so why don't you cry for once
and accept that he doesn't love you,
that you're maybe not going to do great things,
that you probably won't live up to your own expectations
and certainly not your family's,
and maybe you're not as wanted as everyone promises,
and yes, you're maybe even a bit unattractive
but for God's sake
it's even worse to try and convince yourself
that none of it's true.
Sweetheart, it's true.
I'll cry with you.