Mirror mirror, on the wall...

Who is the fairest of them all?

"Not I," said Mirror.

For I am glass, a reflection of the future and of the past.

Never consistent but always remaining. A reminder of time, always waning.

A wrinkle here, a silvery strand, the ongoing battle of aging man. Loved by many, disdained by most.

An item for torment, an item to boast. What is beauty, if not passing? The standards are high, but morale is crashing. You look at me and always wonder...

Am I enough? Do I look older? What does he see in her, but not me?

A pinch of the skin, a tuck of the shirt, watery eyes so full of hurt.

"Should I skip a meal?" You think to yourself. "Or go to the gym, maybe that would help?"

Perhaps a visit to the clinic, to suck it away and be done with it.

"I would look so much prettier, with less roundness to my face." You pause for a moment and contemplate.

The hatred you have for just being you. It shows in your actions and the things that you say.

"If I weren't SO fat." You cry with dismay.

If only you used me the way a mirror was intended.

Maybe you'd hurt less, your heart could be mended.

The curve of your waist, the scars from your life, love your body that you try to hide.

You are a mother; your scars are from war! That was waged on your body by the child you bore.

The life that you made, the love that you have, all that you give, well, you'd likely be glad

Do what I can't, and see yourself truly, your sun-kissed skin and curls unruly

If you viewed yourself in the mirror on the wall.

You'd see that you're perfect, the fairest of them all.