My Face that Doesn’t Belong to Me

The girl in the mirror stares:

unmoving, withdrawn,

merely considering

me.

I tilt my head; she tilts too.

I smile; she smiles too.

Her cracked lips widen;

her scarred face splits,

yellow teeth

crooked and ruined.

Old. Ugly.

Witch.

The smile fades;

I turn away,

shake my bangs back

over my eyes.

I don’t look like that.

I don’t look like that.

I don’t look like that,

they told me, promised me…

they won’t lie, right?

come on, I ask myself that

every day. I’m sick of it,

sick of you—

I run my hand over my chin anyway.

smooth skin. smooth skin.

They’re not lying.

They’re not lying.

I have to go to school.

I give my mother

a smile, a wave;

she smiles back.

I’m too far away to

see me in her eyes, but

her face says it all—

I probably look pleasant.

I wonder what she sees:

the me with a small nose,

like my father says?

the me with a high nose,

like my friend says?

or does she see the other girl,

the twisted nose, like I see?

No way.

No way she would smile like that

at her…

I am out the door,

almost down the road but—

keep my head up!

keep my back straight!

yes, mom.

keep my head up,

keep my back straight.

It’s easy; just

pretend I’m cute

or pretty or hot just

not the girl in the mirror not the girl in the mirror not the girl in the mirror—

deep breath.

get out of my head.

get her out of my head.

get her out of my head get her out they are staring.

deep breath.

chin up.

back straight.

feel their eyes and

be who they say you are.