The Mirrors Eye

The mirror speaks a language harsh and cold,

A lexicon of flaws, a story told

In shades of grey and lines that etch their way

Across the canvas of my every day.

It whispers, 'See, the curves are not quite right,

The angles sharp, the skin too pale, too tight.

The eyes, they hold a sadness, deep and true,

A shadow of the beauty that should be, for you.'

I stand and stare, a captive in its gaze,

A prisoner of the image it portrays.

The whispers turn to shouts, a deafening roar,

A symphony of self-doubt, forevermore.

My fingers trace the contours of my face,

Each imperfection, a familiar disgrace.

The mirror's judgment hangs upon my skin,

A heavy cloak, where doubts begin to spin.

I see the girl I used to be, so bright,

With laughter dancing in her eyes, so light.

Where did she go, that carefree soul of yore?

Lost in the depths of this self-loathing war.

But then, a flicker, a whisper, soft and low,

A voice within, a seed of hope, I know.

It speaks of strength, of beauty deep inside,

A spirit that the mirror cannot hide.

It tells me, 'Look beyond the surface frail,

Embrace the essence, the story that you hail.

The curves, the angles, the lines, the shades,

They tell a tale of life, of joys and shades.'

I close my eyes, and let the whispers fade,

The mirror's judgment no longer can persuade.

I feel the pulse of life within my core,

A symphony of strength, I can ignore.

I see the beauty in the scars I bear,

The battles fought, the burdens I could share.

The lines upon my face, they tell a tale

Of laughter, tears, and love that will prevail.