My face blinks back at me.

My mouth moves with the syllables rolling off my tongue,

but it’s not right,

not completely finished.

The reflection is mine.

I see the flaws I’ve burned into my eyes,

but it doesn’t show the truth,

the feelings buried in my soul.

The grief.

The hatred.

The loathing.

The anger.

The yearning.

None of it.

I don’t understand

why it still surprises me

every time I see my reflection,

it’s truly me,

but not what I feel like.

Not the soulless creature.

Not the empty vessel.

Not the stupid girl.

My reflection is a lie.

It’s not what lives deep inside.

It’s unsettling, really,

the things the mirror hides.