the mirror lies
i do not notice the peeling white polish on my nails. the blinding mirror has betrayed me once more and now my body wants in. i now bite my nails but i do not notice its bitter tang—my eyes are paralyzed to the screen as it dissects me; it is the first to forsake me. the mirror is false. in the scrutinizing eye of the camera each imperfection seizes the spotlight; beneath all layers of falsity—the smudged eyeliner, the thick lashes, the sharp-smelling nail polish—lies a pathetic 16-year-old girl who can only pray for a way to fix her face, her body, her smile, her laugh— she can only lay motionless as she gouges out her stomach with the hope that by morning, appetites will become nothing more than a myth. the mirror cannot help but lie when the little girl engrossed in fantasies of magic, greek gods, and the idea that she could become anything now cannot see further than the hand-held mirror inches from her face and the honed blade of the tweezer tips gripped between her mangled fingernails that lay like salivating wolves ready to pounce on the next blemish— the mirror cannot help but lie.
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