I Look Too Long

Some days the mirror feels like a punishment. I try not to look— but I always do. And there I am, piece by piece, like something put together wrong. My hair—never right. My nose—too much. My forehead, my skin, my lips that won’t soften, eyes that always look more tired than I remember feeling. I trace every flaw like it owes me an answer. Why me? Why this face, this body I don’t know how to live in? It would be easier, I think, if I felt this way only inside. But it follows me outward, sits on my skin, stares back at me from the glass. Some days I look too long, until my chest tightens and my eyes burn and I have to turn away before I break. I don’t hate mirrors. I hate how honest they feel. And still, tomorrow, I will stand there again, hoping— somehow— I will see someone I can be gentle with.