A quick shake of the head.
A nervous sweat wiped off the brow.
A disenchanting voice
Drowns the choked spaces within.
'No...this is stupid. What am I doing?'
The torpedo of anxiety
Gnaw at the thread of reason,
One by one.
One step forward.
The cracked heels approach the line.
Subservient to the will of the nerves,
The breathing gets rugged and raspy.
'One small step and everything'll be alright'.
But something just feels queer inside.
Another step forward.
Fluttering fingers, self-doubt
Brush past the the cluster of acne
Merrily mushrooming beneath the make-up.
The misshapen painted nails
Peek gingerly out of the toes,
Holding on to the dirt-
The souvenirs of the long solitary walks.
Finally the lights are switched on.
The reflection stares back.
The curious eyes
Ready to face
The face of the thirty-four year old.
And the scrutiny begins with alacrity-
The lips could be fuller,
Yes, that would have been perfect...
But as I stare hard
I cannot help but wonder
That THAT's my identity.
Not a dreamer with an indomitable will
But The One
With thinning hair, crooked teeth, pale skin.
That's how the mirror viewed me.
I could hear the snide comments
Crawling onto my flesh,
Obscuring the scarce smiles
With mocking, jeering, patronizing cacophony,
"Do planks, eat right,
Wear braces, suck in that bulging tummy..."
And all I could do was stare.
Stare at the woman that was me.
Hoping to understand
Who I was,
Hiding behind the idiosyncrasy
Of my misplaced identity.