full body mirrors
are honestly
the worst thing i’ve
ever
experienced.
when i was
eight or
nine or
so i used to hang
towels on the
mirror
whenever i showered
till my dad caught me
and told me i was
beautiful
and
perfect
which only made me feel
worse.
nowadays if i’m in the shower
i just let the mirrors
fog up
and hope for the best.
worst comes to worst,
averting the eyes
is always
a failsafe.
i remember
growing up
i used to break down in
tears
about how
in the mirror
my
body
didn’t match my
face.
i constantly felt like one of those
puzzles
where you
mix and
match the torsos and heads of different animals and
i desperately wanted to
find my missing
Piece.
when i hit puberty,
and my hips stopped lying,
i was suddenly disgusted with my torso.
i would try my hardest to shove
the weird,
round
bones
jutting out of my sides
back into my stomach.
i thought it was just extra fat.
it didn’t
help
that my stepmother kept saying i
could stand to lose a few
and that the kids at school
were absolute
demons
that were sent to earth just because
they were too bad even for
hell.
i started lashing out at others.
i found myself loathing
every
minuscule
bit of myself.
i yearned for a release,
any sort of release.
i wanted to run away and
never come back.
i wanted to float up to the sky and
never come down.
i wanted to drown in love and
never come up for air.
i wanted to fall asleep and
never let that unconsciousness slip away.
i wanted to
and
never
and
wanted to
and couldn’t.
i couldn’t.
the worst part about
mirrors
is that they trick you
so that when you look into one
you think that a different
perspective
is the same as different
eyes.
when you look in a
mirror
at the thick red ink
you’ve drawn as it starts to
harden into
little beads along the
battered
skin of your
thighs,
you see the same
red
you would have seen
if you’d just
looked down.
but when someone else sees
the lines across your wrist
as you adjust your
bandages,
they don’t see it
as
casually
as you do.
they see it as a
“call for help.”
and as
more
and
more
people
respond in this manner,
you start to
question whether
they’re acting strange
or if you’re the outlier.
you’re suddenly
hyperconscious
of every
little
thing you do
aware of every
calorie you
eat
aware of every
scrub you
make as you
wash your hands for the
fifth
time
in the past few minutes
aware of every day you’ve gone
without grabbing your
pencil sharpener
and a screwdriver
and locking yourself in your room for twenty minutes.
you want to get better.
you really do.
but then suddenly you start to feel
selfish.
other people have it
so much worse
than you!
it’s unfair to be
this unhappy with your life!
you can’t decide if you would be
better off dead
or if thinking that
just makes you a dick.
it’s a vicious cycle,
because the more selfish the
little voice in the
back of your
head
claims you are,
the more inclined you feel
to just off yourself
and help the world out.
i’m five feet tall
and i’m never going to be taller
and people
love
pointing that out to me.
i’m five feet tall
and sometimes i stick socks
in the bottoms of my
tallest
boots
just to add on a couple of inches.
i’m five feet tall but
inside
i feel like i’m at least 5’11”
and i’ve got a stubbly chin
and a deep, raspy,
folk singer voice
and buff arms
and yeah, okay,
maybe my hopes are set too high.
maybe i should aim lower.
but the fact is,
i’m not even going to be
the average
short
height for men
once i reach eighteen
and it has made me feel
incredibly
hopeless.
sometimes i lay awake in bed
thinking about
how i did
everything wrong
and how i could
totally
do it over again
and get a way better outcome.
other times i
force myself to be
happy with what i have
and where i’ve ended up.
still other times i
don’t think at all
because i’m scared to try.
i used to hang
towels on the
mirror
whenever i showered
till my dad caught me
so now
i just
avert my eyes and
hope for the best.
