Bathroom Mirror

A long cycle of wandering around from room to room. 

Different clothes. Splash water on your face. 

Look in the mirror. 

A sigh escapes her mouth and she moves away, turning her face from the eyes staring back at her. 

The most vulnerable place on earth. The most human place on earth. 

A bathroom mirror.

It sees her every morning. Or every time she gets up. 

Often a little later. 

Often much later. 

Face puffy and eyes sad, heavy, black liner smeared around the bottoms of her eyes, nose dripping, lips discolored and dry. 

It sees her at night. Before bed, 

after stumbling through the darkness onto the toilet. 

Clothes dropped around her ankles, staring at the face of a long night, 

a long day. 

Sometimes

tears. 

Sometimes

a smile. 

It sees her in all the weakness, all the pain, all the agony, endless embarrassment. 

It surprises her. 

Scares her. 

Comforts her - always there to stare back into her eyes knowingly, understanding, 

seeing fully what is standing before it. 

She wishes to smash the glass. She wishes to kiss it. 

She wishes to never look at it again. 

She cannot pull her eyes away.