I’m stretched and warped and tilted just so,

In a carnival hall where the oddities glow.

They laugh, they scream, they point, they flee—

But not one ever really looks at me.

I am the Funhouse, warped and wide,

With no soul of my own, just what steps inside.

A giggle here—a waif-like waist,

A sob when a nose takes up half a face.

“Wow, I look amazing!” says one with delight,

Then another storms off, a fist clenched tight.

I’ve seen joy like sunshine, hate like flame—

All aimed at me, but I’m not to blame.

One boy once whispered, “You made me a freak.”

I longed to tell him, “It’s not me you seek.”

Another girl smiled, her reflection all grace,

As if she gave me a prettier face.

A toddler once waved, said, “Mirror, you’re silly!”

While a teen nearly smashed me, her anger so chilly.

I just bent the light, like I’m built to do—

Yet I hold their fears, their pride, their truths.

I don’t know who I am—I’m a crowd of disguise,

A fractured mosaic of too many eyes.

Today I’m a joke. Tomorrow a crime.

I bend with each footstep. I break over time.

But oh, if someone would just look through,

Past the distortions, the carnival view…

To see me not as a trick or a threat—

But something that feels, something they’ve never met.

I want to be real, not a rumor, a game—

Not their trophy of pride, nor their target of shame.

Not tall, not short, not wide or thin—

Just one face, one truth, from deep within.

So next time you pass, don’t just distort—

Don’t hurl your love or your cruel retort.

Maybe ask me who I am, too—

Because I’m more than what I reflect of you.