Graphic by Chris Ikonomou
Do you ever look at your reflection and have absolutely no fucking clue who the person is staring back at you?
Sometimes my reflection is a stranger
Unfamiliar to me,
and the only thing I recognize about them
is their flaws.
Their hips are unsurpassable mountain ranges
Unexplored,
and treacherous
Their shoulders a wall
that stands between them,
and that “girls’ shirt”
that looked so cute on the rack
The one that they would do anything
just to make fit.
Their body hair
Their chest
Their thighs
Their curves
Sometimes too much
Sometimes not enough
But sometimes just right,
though those days are few and far between.
I’m learning to love them
Their body
Our body
But it’s taken a lot of time,
a lot of pain
A childhood full of shame
Staring at the mirror for hours,
hating what I see
Practicing poses,
just to see for myself how other people perceive me
Practicing poses,
just trying to make myself take up less space
It’s become a daily battle
keeping myself from falling back into those same habits.
Some days
Some days the body I’ve spent so much time staring at
Mocking
Trying to love
Doesn’t even look like me.
No matter what I do,
it just doesn’t feel real
I don’t feel real
I tell myself that there’s no way
That is not what I look like.
It can’t be
That just is not me.
If I stare too long,
my eyes cross.
The mirror gets….
Fuzzy
Clouded
Then it shatters,
and my mind goes numb
I lose myself,
and the rest of the day is spent trying to put together the pieces
I avoid the sharp edges,
though the cuts don’t hurt near as bad
as the reflections they wear.
I try to find little clues
Things to keep me grounded
I put on my favorite outfits
Not a girls’ shirt and boys’ pants
I put on clothes
Because clothes don’t have a fucking gender
I paint my nails
I do my makeup
These things remind me that
I am where I’m meant to be
This is my body
And I am free to do with it what I want.
I remind myself that the person staring back at me is
Beautiful
Strong
Smart
They are powerful
Courageous.
Even when they are a stranger to me,
they are who I am meant to be
Not him
Not the boy practicing poses in the bathroom
Not the boy that hated who he saw staring back at him.
I am the person who holds their shoulders back,
and chest high
Proud,
for everyone to see
I am the person whose strong thighs carry them
When they walk
When they dance
Whose curves are exactly how they are meant to be
Love handles and all.
I am that person.
They are me,
and I am them.