The Mirror

I stare in the mirror. The mirror stares back. It spits in my face Look at this hair, going past my shoulders. A fucking anchor, dragging my head down to the floor. It drags my whole body down until I am hunched from old age and regrets and burdens that were never mine in the first place. It wraps around my neck and tries to suffocate me. A pillow pressed against my face as I scratch and claw for the right to breathe but it is relentless. It does not bleed. I pull hair out of my food, out of the drain, out of my mouth; and for what? For what? It’s not mine. Do you know how it fucking feels to not be your own? For you to look at yourself and only see a percentage of yourself? A ‘but’ attached to your self worth. A chain to hold you back. I’m on display. It’s everyone else's. Look at the pretty girl, look at her hair, touch her hair. I’m a zoo animal, and they creep up behind me. They push their hand through the window despite the glass and the blood, and their aging, wrinkling hands grab at it so they can coo and gasp because that’s all they want. Some doll to play with. Because I’m not real. I’m hollow, a void, a tree trunk that’s rotted from the inside out. Plunge your hand into this darkness, into this trunk, and what will you find? Nothing. Put your trust in me as your hand dangles in the void ready to run into absolutely nothing. Because those compliments are never meant for me. They’re meant for this fake self I see in the mirror. Because look at me, look at me, I look so beautiful with my long hair. Because I’ll be so ugly with short hair, and guess what? I don’t care if I grow warts and spots and lose all my teeth and my face caves in because at least I’ll be mine. At least I’ll be mine. They told me to never care about other people’s opinions and I don’t and now they’re scared; scared others will whisper and assume and others will assume right. Every rumor is right and wrong and means everything and means nothing and I don’t care because at least I’ll be living my own life for once in these miserable fucking years. And these years were supposed to be joyous and I was suppose to look back and be happy and laugh but they’re not. I can’t feel that wave of nostalgia because this blemish is still there reminding me I’ve made no progress. The pictures are stained just like the mirror and any progression has been kicked to the ground and spat on. And I look back in the mirror and the mirror spits at me. You promised me in sixth grade I could remove it, destroy it, burn it, purify myself. I could’ve gone to church on my hands and knees and pray and God would console me in His arms. But you grabbed me by the collar and the doors of my sanctuary closed for years. They are dusty save for where my hands pound on the doors asking for salvation again. Save for the tears that have fallen on these doors. All because you didn’t see any fear in my eyes. And she refused too. She was supposed to be my pastor; my savior looked at me and said no, this was a sin. But it was my sin to commit, and it was my body and no one else is suppose to refuse that, you’re not supposed to refuse. And every fucking person on this planet refused to because curly hair doesn’t matter; it didn’t matter until about five years ago, now all of you want it. I was supposed to burn my ears and keep it straight and frizzy and put a smile on my face for what? For who? I stare at the mirror and the mirror stares back. It spits in my face. I don’t get a choice, I never got a choice. And you get the choice. You get to curl your hair and you get to spend as little as you want on it and you get to run your hands through your hair without it biting back. I only get compliments when it’s straight, I only get compliments when I’m straight and I want to throw up because I fucking hate when it’s straight.

I’m at my limit, I’ve been at my limit for six years and it’s right there, it’s right there. And you push it back, more pictures, more time, more months, more weeks. And I look back in the mirror and I hold the scissors up and it’s Right there. And I got my first taste, after the dye wore up and I was left with split ends for six fucking months because you can’t wait to tell me you told me so. I remember looking at the hair in that porcelain sink. It’s not mine. It was never mine and for the first time I was disattached and for the first time I was free. Those doors of my sanctuary has opened, the light spilled onto my crumbled body. For the first time in all my life, all my 6,508 some days and loose hours, I felt free as I put the scissors right below my ear. And I watch as the door closes as I put the scissors down because I’m never fucking done pleasing you. I’m never fucking done. I stare at the mirror and it spits at me. How does it feel to laugh at me because I don’t feel happy. How does it feel to be guiltless because of the pain you caused me. How does it feel to call me a brat because I haven’t felt like myself in years, and I am selfish, I am selfish, because I want to feel fucking whole. You stick up your nose as I beg and you all shrug when I talk and I don’t get that. I don’t get to just shrug it off, I don’t get to go home and pretend it’s just some little problem because the problem never leaves. It’s supposed to be just a small annoyance, a box on a to-do list but that to-do list has been piling up for six years. It has become a part of me. Sewn in with the thickest needle imaginable. Black and ugly and dripping with shame. And you laughed. Do you remember when I finally broke down and cried in front of you? I mourned; I showed emotion for you for the first time in years and what did you do? You did nothing. You told me it’s my fault for thinking I actually had a choice, while the person who actually loves me held me down and let me sob, let me scream, let me let it all out. I’m tired of being your fucking doll, and you’re tired of having a doll that fights back. A doll that makes snipping motions in the mirrors. A doll that has spent hours, no, years, on wanting to be free. A doll who has cried oceans and those oceans have frozen over to create a new ice age. I stare at the mirror and it spits at me. I rewatch Mulan over and over again. I have turned to new houses of worship, new places of salvation, and I have found it in one single moment that doesn’t even last a second. When she takes that sword and raises that hair above her, as it rises like a halo and falls to the ground in it’s descension to hell, I breathe. I breathe for the first time in seventeen years because I think for a moment that can be me, that can be me. But I’m not going to war. I’m not fighting for China or my family, I am being selfish, all I am is selfish you say. This is no war. And this disease I carry came from the man I loved more than life itself and gave me a purpose. And I got to look back and laugh at him as he married the mother of his children in a vintage plaid suit and our hair parted straight down the middle while you got to laugh at me. And later, later, later in the night I look at him as he snores. I wish to be like him, to let the jabs and jokes just slide away, but the pain never built up for him. I compare the two men and find how their faces have changed from their wedding day to the present: he has survived useless wars and towers falling and the fear time would simply stop, I see the differences. It’s not in the face, not the age, but in the hair. It’s gray and white and feels like freedom as he let me hover my hands above it. It prickled my palm as it barely grazed, each poke sending waves down my spine. Mesmerizing and intoxicating and haunting. Later, later, later, in the night I look at the razor he uses to free himself of that prison. The mirror laughs and mocks me as I put the razor down and go back to my cell. I stare in the mirror and it spits at me. I shake the mirror. Pandora’s Box, let out your disease and curses and all the problems because I am curious, and I wish to satisfy that craving even if it leaves me ruined. Tell me your secrets. Come out and let me strangle you, see how you like choking on your own hair; how does it feel to choke on something that was forced down your throat from the moment you were born? I stare in the mirror and it spits at me. I spit back.

I can’t wait till the day, the day I take that mirror and slam it the ground and take the shards in my hand and kill this disease that rests like a halo to you but devil horns to me.

And I’ll bleed and bleed and bleed but I’ll laugh and laugh and laugh.

You can’t spit at me anymore.