Deformed, beautiful
The rock was course,
grainy.
She ran her thumb over the surface,
palpating it.
She appreciated its weight in her hand.
She didn’t think much when she chose it,
any rock would’ve worked, really.
She hurled it at the mirror.
The mirror is,
was,
a lovely ornate thing.
Brass angels danced,
around the floor-length frame.
The kind of mirror that makes you feel prettier,
just for looking at yourself in it.
She picked up a glass shard off the floor.
Careful not to let the dagger
slice her palm.
Her face was distorted
in the fractals
of the bits that hung on.
What should go first?
A man once pulled her hair,
arching her neck with force.
She begged him to stop,
he liked it.
He’d accredited her beauty,
to that flowing, shiny hair.
She grabbed a handful,
and tore the shard through,
right along the scalp.
It felt like a knife cutting raw chicken
against the grain.
Locks of chestnut fell,
daintily,
like leaves in autumn.
A boyfriend once called her pudgy,
she made the mistake of disagreeing.
God forbid she talk.
He grabbed a red Sharpie.
1, 2, 3, he counted aloud,
as she showed her exactly how chubby she was.
She traced those spots with her eyes,
she had no problem remembering where.
One-by-one,
she hacked at her flesh.
It should’ve hurt.
The mirror piece became slippery,
then sticky.
A better grip.
She didn’t bother to wipe off the blood,
it gushed freely.
In the cracked mirror,
it almost looked
like she was draped in velvet.
With each new cut,
her heartbeat grew louder,
and louder.
She almost felt human.
What a rush.
A stranger once sat too close on the bus.
The other seats were empty,
just them two.
Alone.
His eyes,
brown and muddled,
swollen at the edges,
found their way to her chest.
Indiscreetly.
She replied with a cocked eyebrow,
daring him to explain.
You wore that for attention,
he scoffed.
As if it wasn’t just a pretty top.
As if she wanted the attention.
The mirror shard grew warm in her hand.
She traced it up her belly,
to her chest,
like a delicate finger tip.
One, and then the other.
She held them up to inspect,
handling them like bags of meat.
That’s all they were,
really.
The voices of hundreds,
thousands,
of men rang out in her ears.
Don’t confuse it with the pounding,
of blood loss.
Only the voices of men
are incessant.
Where are you going, good-looking?
The construction worker whistled across the street.
Nice ass!
Her classmate whispered in her ear.
Why won’t you respond to me?
Said every man, ever. Followed by,
Ugly, selfish bitch!
Again,
and again.
Over,
and over.
Unrelenting.
The sliver of glass found its way,
for it had a mind of its own now,
deep,
piercing into the side of her skull.
The ringing stopped.
Finally, peace.
The mirror was cracked,
more than she remembered.
Maybe the fragments were dancing around,
in tune with her light-head.
She looked like a Barbie doll.
Mangled, covered in marker.
Played with by a child that
hadn’t yet learned respect.
She smiled at her handiwork.
She felt beautiful.
