When I look in the mirror I see a body that doesn’t feel like mine. A body that contains too many lives, too many loves, too many worlds to be bound to one frail, finite physical form. It’s not that these aren’t my eyes; it’s that my eyes are also emerald green and obsidian black and violent as the ocean in storm. And it’s not that these aren’t my lips; it’s that my lips should also be thinner, sharper, drawn back in a snarl or down in sorrow or up in a smile wicked and cold. I should be taller, thinner, stronger, paler; my hair should be white and black and tangled stiff with sea salt. It’s not that I’m not the girl in the mirror; it’s just that I’m not only her, either. So how can her body feel right, when it doesn’t belong to everyone I am?
Feel right according to whom?
Lovely and stark. -LB