The mirror doesn't speak telltale lies.








I never knew about the deception of mirrors until only today. And it's like this.

I sit here, on this cushioned chair, finding myself all over again. I touch my lips, they're so hungry, and I see my fingers stained with red cohibition. The black lines in my eyes speak boldly, and I reach up to let my finger graze my eyelid. Smudges of black scream into my blank face and the purple hue on my eyelid is left untouched.








Touching my bare neck, seeing where the diamonds should be, or where the shiny pearls should be.

But they're not there today.

And as I'm staring at my face in the mirror, I can see nothing but everything that isn't real.








So the unraveling begins.

First with the painted cohibition. And then of course, in an act of absolution, I furiously reach for a tissue to wipe away all my insecurities and the black eyeliner that make my eyes seem bigger than they really are. But I'm always lying.

And the mirror always knows.

It tries to catch me, but I've learned to dodge it and play tricks on myself.

My hair tumbles down and I watch it, tumbling and spilling over my shoulders as if it could go on forever, but it ends at my shoulders and does a half flop and stops. It feels straw-like, but it looks like heaven. And I don't dare blink because I know my eyes lie, but the mirrors don't. So I squeeze my eyes shut and I can't cry, because there is no emotion. And I can't speak because my voice was never heard, not even I listened. So I sit, trying to imagine vanity, but I can't remember what that was.

His breath hits my cheek and my eyes are still closed and I'm sans painted face. He wants to say something, I know. I don't even have to look because his words are hanging in the air. He doesn't seem to notice the denial that's weaving through the room trying to seep into our embrace. I don't dare breathe and I his words are almost spilling off his tongue, so much so that I can almost taste it.

But he doesn't say a word.

And he doesn't move an inch.

But I already know.

And we sit, his words so silent but so loud that they're pounding my head. And me, trying not to breathe and let go, sans drawn eyes, sans painted lips, sans face.

He doesn't remember me anymore.

He can't see me anymore.

And his breath hits my cheek, this time with haste, and he stands up. My eyes are still closed. I don't want to look.

The mirror never lies.

And he doesn't either.