It was the quietest thought I have ever had,
tip-toed around the yelling ones;
the ones that spit, "Who, you?"
with spiteful tongues
tipped in doubtful poison.
The storefront windows jeered at me,
telling me they're on my mirror's side.
The dark smear they left, smirking,
"You can't help but look at yourself. . .
now, aren't you disappointed?"
There was the embarrassed blush
when someone comments,
"You sure do take a lot of pictures
all the while, knowing I didn't take pictures
because I think I'm beautiful,
but because I was desperate to prove to myself
that maybe I could be.
The tags on the inside of my clothes
burned numbers into my brain,
telling me even single digits are of
the greatest numerical value,
and I winced as I'd rip them off
to get rid of their weight
only to find the scales were playing
the same game.
I got up in the early morning
to paint my face on,
layering and layering and layering;
the mask that stared back at me
coyly smiled to say,
"It's me they love."
But outside of all that screaming,
there was that voice.
It was small, and still,
and it made me pay attention,
because there were two eyes
that didn't see straight through me,
or past me,
or see nice things "in spite of. . ."
Those two eyes teared up
to hear me admit what I'd been listening to
in all those leering comments
and opinions locked inside my head.
Those eyes spoke silently,
of kisses and good sight and prayers:
he said that I was misled,
appalled that I could think that all
those cruel things could be true.
I still couldn't believe.
And then he stood me in front of the mirror,
his eyes full, and brimming with words
he couldn't even say.
So he didn't say a thing.
He just looked at me in front of that lying
piece of glass,
past the make-up and inches
and my form and waist.
His hands on my hips,
his eyes on mine,
the lovely whisper sighed,
"My mirror can't compare to his eyes.
Maybe I shouldn't believe mine."
and though I didn't see anything different,
the liars went silent.
Those eyes almost cried,
and Beauty smiled.