When I look in the mirror I see
roses. Stark and stubborn.
Bursting from the cracks
in skin too plain
to do them justice.

When I look in the mirror I see
thorns. Threatening to break through the façade
so carefully contorted to fit
that cookie-cutter idealization
of a pre-packaged identity.

When I look in the mirror I see
monochrome; like the eyes of the beholder
who twisted my covert dissatisfaction into something--
maybe not beautiful, but at least
accepted, yes; eyes that couldn't behold
when I had my own ideations; couldn't accept
that underneath that soft, dull skin,
there were thorns.

There are thorns
and there are roses, too, when I look in the mirror--
they are engulfing my reflection;
transforming my figure into one that is unrecognizable
to those discerning eyes--

but not to mine,
these fiery red eyes of the beholder
which finally recognize beauty
worthy of love.