The Mirror Lies

The mirror lies. In front of me, I see what others see—a respectful and obedient and down to earth girl. Everyday, I paint my face to hide my skin. The world does not want to see my scars: the marks of life upon my body. I lie to them to protect myself. I don’t want others to see the truth underneath my mask; I don’t want to be vulnerable. I want my mask to be the truth.

Lies only grow— like trees— their bark grows thicker by the day until one brave soul decides to tear it all down. The thicker the cherry tree gets, the harder it is to rip apart. It’s a dangerous game when lies become truths.

Every morning I leave my house with a coffee-to-go. I hate coffee, but how can I be respected if they learn I love kombucha and dark chocolate in the mornings?

My wardrobe overflows with modest, professional dresses. I long ago abandoned my bold and rebellious “rags.” I shove my feet into those killer stilettos. I am amazed I have yet to break my neck. I bought a wig to hide my unladylike green crew cut. I now have long boring brown straight hair. No highlights, no variation, no nothing. I bought it fives years ago and never took it off. Not even to sleep nor shower. I am fearful that someone will see my green hair and judge me. I don’t know what color my real hair is anymore.

My voice is not mine. I don’t scream. I don’t argue. I don’t cry. Even when my head is ready to shatter into its million thoughts. Even when my eyes can see that I’ve been cheated on. Even when my heart is so heavy it's drowning. I do not have a voice; having a voice isn’t who I am to the hundred and one people I pass by everyday.

When I ask the mirror who I am, it lies. I do not want to be that backboneless girl. That is not me. But when was the last time I was me? Who am I, really? Do I even exist?

After layers and layers of thick bark that I have allowed to grow around me— to protect me— I know that the real me is in there somewhere. By this point probably a few feet deep in bark. I want to stand alone but my legs have weakened after years and years of floating past life.

My taste buds have numbed to the scorching bitterness of coffee. The fizzy nature of kombucha is slowly leaving my memory. My feet have calloused to withstand the pinching heels. I sneer at the alternative styles I pass on the street. I never complain. This is who I’ve become.

We are so accustomed to disguising ourselves from others, that we end by disguising ouselves from oursleves.