I was eleven in my brother's bathroom,
low ceiling, stark light, the damp
still clinging to the tiles.
They asked me something.
I answered with scissors.
The brows grew back. The mirror didn't forget.
---
Some days they play the dare:
What if you just — ?
And I lean in, curious,
reckless with my own face.
Some days the queen's glass,
showing me everyone more fair,
the quiet poison of comparison
I swallow like morning water.
Some days the frenemy —
You look fine, I guess,
the compliment with teeth,
the angle that flatters
just enough to keep me coming back.
And some days: my mother.
The one who loved me,
who also knew exactly
where to cut.
Stand up straight. Suck it in.
You have such a pretty face —
the pretty face that wasn't
quite enough.
---
I know they hold no malice.
Only light, reversed.
But the girl with the scissors
is still in there,
waiting.
And the mirror is patient.
They have time.
They have questions.
One day I'll be old enough
to answer.