deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Looking Glass
I walk a familiar hall, to a claustrophobic velvet room
There she hangs upon a nail, and nothing else
The space is dark, but blurred outlines escape
She must hold bookshelves of memories
And pictures of the past
This antique looking glass
I dare not ask for a previous snapshot of myself.
.. I told her not to
Can’t you see her standing there?
A jailed little girl separated by nothing but a fragile frame
I don’t know her name
But I seem to mimic her
Or is she mimicking me?
A border of reality and reminiscence separates a loving touch
She clings to dolls and plushies
This magic mirror must be broken
I deny this clear reflection
I promise I’ve grown bigger, stronger, and independent
She shakes her head and laughs
How can you be so stupid and heartless?
I’m a woman now, who is this child mocking me?
I will shatter her body
I will erase years of my existence
No lens can hold me down
No reflection can judge me now
There, she’s dead and gone
Here, I am a distorted likeness of jagged edges that open my skin
I am a broken figure, and although I could piece myself back together
I am overwhelmed, because there are hundreds and hundreds of my deformed face smiling back at me.
There she hangs upon a nail, and nothing else
The space is dark, but blurred outlines escape
She must hold bookshelves of memories
And pictures of the past
This antique looking glass
I dare not ask for a previous snapshot of myself.
.. I told her not to
Can’t you see her standing there?
A jailed little girl separated by nothing but a fragile frame
I don’t know her name
But I seem to mimic her
Or is she mimicking me?
A border of reality and reminiscence separates a loving touch
She clings to dolls and plushies
This magic mirror must be broken
I deny this clear reflection
I promise I’ve grown bigger, stronger, and independent
She shakes her head and laughs
How can you be so stupid and heartless?
I’m a woman now, who is this child mocking me?
I will shatter her body
I will erase years of my existence
No lens can hold me down
No reflection can judge me now
There, she’s dead and gone
Here, I am a distorted likeness of jagged edges that open my skin
I am a broken figure, and although I could piece myself back together
I am overwhelmed, because there are hundreds and hundreds of my deformed face smiling back at me.
Published 16th Apr 2024
Author's Note
NaPo 24’ #8
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
16th Apr 2024 9:20pm
19th Apr 2024 2:46am
Dear T,
The poignancy of this write is so heartfelt and tender for me. This makes me think, is it possible in any way to outgrow how we mature from childhood experiences? How we form images of ourselves based on these experiences? Bring as old as methuselah at this point, I don’t think so. The closing line is killer, the poem is stellar. H🌷
The poignancy of this write is so heartfelt and tender for me. This makes me think, is it possible in any way to outgrow how we mature from childhood experiences? How we form images of ourselves based on these experiences? Bring as old as methuselah at this point, I don’t think so. The closing line is killer, the poem is stellar. H🌷
