they always warned her about
broken mirrors:
the way it’s pieces could pierce
the skin,
blood trickling towards
her finger tips.
but they never warned her about
the smooth mirrors:
whose reflection was
full of tags,
disgust staring back at her,
scanning her body,
imperfections screaming for attention.
they never warned her about
the smooth mirrors:
the ones that hide nothing
and reveal everything.
they don’t leave
the outer scars,
never fully reveal
the battle within–
the desire to be
happy,
the recognition of the need
to nurture.