Distortion
I examined the curve of my eyes and the shape of my face.
I said "I am not beautiful?"
The words came out like a question because I wasn't sure if it was true.
I examined the darkness of my skin and the unruliness of my hair.
I said "I am not beautiful."
The words came out like a statement because now the truth was beginning to don on me.
I squinted my eyes, trying to distort to my vision, hoping I would see something different.
I looked to the mirror for reassurance, but all it did was smirk.
This time, I said nothing.
The mirror had the last laugh.
But then I discovered a loophole.
I painted my eyes and contoured the shape of my face.
I said "I am becoming beautiful?"
The words came out like a question because I wasn't sure how to feel about the transformation.
I hid the darkness of my skin under a layer of liquid and flat ironed every curl out of my head.
I said "I am becoming beautiful."
The words came out like a statement because now the transformation was complete.
I looked at myself, my eyes wide open, not wanting to distort my vision.
But then I moved, and my beauty smeared.
I looked to the mirror for reassurance, but all it did was chuckle.
This time, I said nothing.
The mirror had the last laugh.
Now I could barely see the mirror through the wetness of my eyes.
I looked at my eyes as tears spilled over the edges and lined the corners of the shape of my face.
I said "Is this beautiful?"
The words came out like a question because I had never seen myself cry before.
I looked at how my dark skin glowed against the transparency of the tears and how my curls moved with every tear that I wiped.
I said "This is beautiful."
The words came out like a statement because now I saw the beauty in my emotions.
I looked at myself and realized that my tears were particles of my soul reaching the surface.
I looked to the mirror for reassurance. It didn't even flinch.
This time, I said nothing.
It was an eerie sensation realizing that the mirror was never laughing.