In my reflection I see…

By Anonymous

When I come home at the end of the day, I often look at myself in the mirror. 

My eyes are tired, yes, but beautiful also. 

Hazel, just like my grandmother’s.

They look back at me through my reflection. Those eyes, my eyes. Oh, the things they have seen. 

The good, and the bad. 

The tears they've cried over the years could fill oceans, but those oceans are kept in the past. The sea is a scary place and I fear what I might find if I go too deep. 

I wonder if my eyes are like oceans and if anyone has ever been lost in them before. Probably not, but that's okay. They’re my eyes, and I'll share them some day when I'm ready. 

For now, I stare at them as they stare back at me. 

I wash off the makeup that outlines their shape, and points out the lack of symmetry my face has. My uneven eyebrows and hooded eyelids. Imperfections that for whatever reason, I can't bring myself to hate. 

What is the good in hating something that I can not change? 

As I continue looking into my eyes, I can't help but, 

Smile.

That awful, crooked smile that doesn't go away, and God, I pray it never does. 

I think back to the single bad moment of the day when I embarrassed myself by almost bumping into someone. I don't let myself linger in that place for long. 

Instead, my mind quickly remembers when I laughed as I read my book in the library. When I smiled in English upon seeing my desk neighbour walk in the room. When I laughed with my friends at lunch, at the same joke that's been told fifty times already. 

All those happy moments when my smile shows itself. I sometimes worry those memories may not stay with me forever, but I know that the lines around my lips will. A permanent reminder of the countless times I allowed myself to be happy. I smile at those thoughts. The beautiful thoughts that will forever circulate,

My mind.

What a glorious mind. The memories, the fantasies, the past, the future and everything in between. So many wonderful thoughts to think. 

Bad ones too, of course. But I've learnt to navigate around them. 

I prefer the place in the back of my mind where my ideas get sorted as best they can, which isn't very much. They prefer to jumble together and create castles out of shoes that get strung together with honey, and create a place where the lemon people go to play. Sometimes my thoughts float up into the clouds, my mind and the sky one in the same; constantly exploding with fireworks. For my mind is loud. 

Much louder then,

My voice. 

Oh how I hate my voice. 

If I could talk through written words forever that would be fine by me. I'm not sure what it is exactly. It's low but not in a way one might consider cool. It’s squeaky, unpleasant and loud. Though, not quite loud enough to be heard. It's not just the sound of it either, it's the silence that often comes after it. 

Like I never said anything at all. 

For my voice is also quiet. Too quiet sometimes, oh how easy it is to be spoken over. To go unheard, unnoticed, and unseen. I can't sing. And even if I could, I'd be too scared to try. Because I hate the sound of my voice. There’s just something about it that doesn't sound right to,

My ears.

My favourite feature to accessorize. My lobes are stretched a bit more than they should be due to the weight of my obnoxious earrings. Yes, obnoxious. But I can't help but love them. 

Although, earring wearing isn't the only thing my ears are good for. They also let me hear the sounds of the world. The voices of my friends as they tell me about the craziest thing that just happened to them. 

I can hear the birds chirp and the water on the lake. 

The music I dance to as I listen to it through my headphones. 

Always headphones. Never earbuds. 

I find earbuds hurt my ears too much, and they always seem to get tangled in, 

My hair.

I remove the elastic from a style my mom doesn't like, and allow my hair to just barely touch my shoulders. 

“What beautiful hair you have.” 

People have always told me that, but it's still hard to believe. It's flat and messy and never cooperates. And yet a part of me still loves it. The colour, the shine, the length. 

It's truly the perfect length. 

“Don't cut your beautiful long hair” is another thing I’ve been told countless times. 

I didn't listen. I didn't need to listen because it's my hair, not theirs. 

It was one of the best decisions I've ever made. 

I still don't like it when my hair is down, the way it gets in my face as I try to work. But at least now, before a shower, the rare times I allow my hair to be free and frame my face, I don't find it so ugly. And as I look in the mirror, I now notice the colour matches, 

My freckles.

They splatter across my face from ear to ear. I’ve always loved my freckles, like I've been kissed by the sun a hundred thousand times. Or like sprinkles on a birthday cake. How I love sprinkles. Or perhaps my freckles are the footprints of a lost soul who once travelled the world, just to walk across,

My nose.

The nose that may not be the right shape, but what does the right shape even mean? I can smell the cookies baking in the oven and the fresh scent of pine in the forest. The sweet smell of my cat's forehead, and the paper of a new book.

What more could I ask for?

I look in the mirror.

I see my eyes.

My smile.

My hair.

My freckles.

And my nose.

I hear my mind.

My voice

And the way they both seem to echo.

In my reflection I see me, and everything that I am. 

The good, the bad, the past, the present and hope for the future. 

Every imperfection, every beauty. All of it combined, standing there, staring, smiling…

It's all me.

And it will always, be me.