What the mirror remembers
I look for beauty in sunsets,
in strangers passing by,
in the way light rests on everything it touches.
Everywhere except the mirror.
The mirror is honest.
It doesn’t blur the lines
or soften the stories
written into my skin.
It remembers the nights I don’t talk about.
The battles no one saw me win.
There are marks on me that once felt like endings.
Now they are quiet reminders that I stayed.
And still,
I stand there searching for something soft,
something lovely —
As if survival isn’t already a kind of beauty.
Maybe one day
I’ll look at my reflection
and see not the hurt,
not the history —
but the strength it took to still be here.
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