The Mirror in the Fitting Room
I wasn't able to believe exactly what I was looking at.
Tears began to roll down my cheeks
I looked far beyond what was really infront of me,
Unable to comprehend how it got to this
Reminiscing to what I wanted to believe was still there.
I saw someone running freely without a care in her mind.
A delicate smile painted to perfection on her face.
Her hair -a mess- but she loved it.
Her arms free of scars
Eyes shining bright
Eyes shining bright
Face glowing, clothes that covered and fit
Dreading to see what was really infront of me
People change over time
Some for the better,
Others for worse.
For the past year or two,
I failed to see that I, too. was in this "changing" process
I wasn't able to believe exactly what I was looking at
I couldn't bare to keep staring at what was being presented infront of me
I could see the effects of her sleepless nights
All the bad memories she'd endured, easily recognizeable by the marks on her arms
I could see the abuse in purple and black
She tried to cover the pain
Layering her face with makeup upon makeup
Applying this mask over and over again each morning.
And the actions bullies took to point out every flaw could clearly be seen like the skin covering her bones.
Pale, Petite, Pathetic...
Exploiting her body,
All guys ever wanted from her
I became nauseous at the sight
-she wasn't ugly-
She just wasn't recognizeable.
I felt empathy for her
She didn't change willingly,
She doesn't realize how much she's changed.
Blindsighted by the attention she is finally getting.
But at the end of each day,
When she's all alone and removing her mask,
She looks deep into her eyes and stares deep down.
She can see her old self
-the real her-
Trying to escape this unknown body.
What has beome of her?
-Knock Knock Knock-
"Are you almost done?"
I wipe away the tears running down,
Fix my make up,
and hold back the laments still remaining of who I was.
As I finish changing back into my clothes,
I take one last look of what has been staring at me this entire time.
I leave the fitting room before tears stream down again.
The reflection in that fitting room is not who I am,
But who I have become.