Mirror, mirror, on the wall, why do I feel so small? Acne pits with the shame of giving in to irritation and children forever asking about the holes in my face yet small bumps begging me to pinch again. Sitting on the bathroom counter so I can see to apply my eyeliner but no, its not straight and my artist hands make kindergarten-wobbly lines. But still I try. I never liked the lying feeling I got from “natural” makeup but I paint my face, trying to become a work of art.
The mirror was old and her reflection rippled as she moved in front of it. She took one step and the mirror reflected the image of a young girl, and then she took another step and it reflected te reflection of an old woman.
Chanpheng
Hallo mirror, familiar, and yet unknown, whose eyes do I look into….I know you and yet…I am not so sure. You reflect back the essence of my being, in moods like the weather, sunny, cloudy, rain or shine….a weathered friend!
He doesn’t look at mirrors anymore. The person he sees reflected isn’t quite right. It started subtly at first, his nose just a little too short, the corners of his mouth uplifted where they wouldn’t be. Now he finds his image swirled, a cacophonous mess of skin and features blended into nothing. He feels the planes of his face constantly, makes sure they are in the right place, fingertips dragging across skin grown sallow from stress.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, why do I feel so small? Acne pits with the shame of giving in to irritation and children forever asking about the holes in my face yet small bumps begging me to pinch again. Sitting on the bathroom counter so I can see to apply my eyeliner but no, its not straight and my artist hands make kindergarten-wobbly lines. But still I try. I never liked the lying feeling I got from “natural” makeup but I paint my face, trying to become a work of art.
The mirror was old and her reflection rippled as she moved in front of it. She took one step and the mirror reflected the image of a young girl, and then she took another step and it reflected te reflection of an old woman.
Hallo mirror, familiar, and yet unknown, whose eyes do I look into….I know you and yet…I am not so sure. You reflect back the essence of my being, in moods like the weather, sunny, cloudy, rain or shine….a weathered friend!
He doesn’t look at mirrors anymore. The person he sees reflected isn’t quite right. It started subtly at first, his nose just a little too short, the corners of his mouth uplifted where they wouldn’t be. Now he finds his image swirled, a cacophonous mess of skin and features blended into nothing. He feels the planes of his face constantly, makes sure they are in the right place, fingertips dragging across skin grown sallow from stress.