Here in this turning place, this hall of mirrors, I open my mouth to speak. Seeing myself reflected around every corner, at every drab, imperfect angle, I breathe and feebly attempt to protest. Yet no words seem to form properly, and I find myself stifling my own thoughts for fear of looking worse in every facet. My words are weak, and my thoughts are frail, or so I tell myself. A part of me wants to believe they can impact someone’s life. However whenever I try, whenever I make effort to talk to someone and sympathize, show them my level of empathy and my shared feelings of how this body is portrayed in such a negative and revealing light, I trip and stumble and scrape my face, breaking a mirror, pierced by the shards. And though that mirror is broken, another stands in its place, and I seem to be faced with an endless supply of bodily reflection. Faces. Faces. So many faces. and all are mine. A thousand faces all sharing my same expression of confusion and smothered fear.
So I ask myself who I am, and the mirrors can provide me with no answer.
Then, feeling sluggish and sad for not realizing this earlier, I remember that there is no way that mirrors could possibly reflect what I feel. They cannot know what is inside, though they boast to think they do. They like to whisper things, the conniving critics.
But now I remember this, who am I to feel the need to listen to them any longer.
And here, in this turning place, this hall of fragile mirrors
The image shatters.