The reflection that looks back at me isn't mine
I see a girl with wiry black hair
It's not mine, I bought it at a weave shop.
The lines that bend around my hips and under my stomach, well they're not mine, they didn't belong to me two or three years ago when things were safe and food wasn't made for comfort.
I see heavy bags anchoring fatigue and lost nights of restless searching for connection and dependence lining my eyes much like the kohl that circles my eyelashes. Well those I got from the beauty store and in the former situation, the LACK of the beauty store.
I hide myself in makeup as I search for attention. The attention of the personified "it" girl.
The reflection I see is of the wanna be "it" girl.
Instead the only thing that's mine, is my imperfect perfectness, or so I have failed to see it.