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.