Looking at my self
Looking in the mirror
is like looking at someone
I was taught no one could love.
Because your words didn’t disappear
when you did.
They stayed behind,
leaving scars no one else could see,
but ones I could hear
every time I looked at myself.
Ugly.
Fat.
No one will want you
after I’m done with you.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe you wanted your voice
to live inside my head
long after you weren’t there
to say the words yourself.
Because now I stand in front of the mirror
picking apart pieces of me
you taught me to hate,
wondering if anyone could ever love
the person staring back.
But years later,
your words changed.
I miss you.
I miss you laying beside me.
And somehow
those words hurt differently,
because your bed wasn’t empty.
She was there.
Your fiancée
was lying beside you,
while you were telling me
you missed the space
I used to fill.
And I couldn’t understand it.
How could I be so ugly,
so unwanted,
so impossible to love
when you had me
but still be the woman
you thought about
while lying next to someone else?
You told me
no one would want me
after you were done with me,
but maybe you never expected
to be the one
who still wanted pieces of me
after I was gone.
And now when I look in the mirror,
I’m trying to separate
your voice from mine.
Trying to remember
that the reflection staring back at me
was never ugly.
She was just told she was
until she believed it.
And maybe healing
is looking at her now
and finally saying:
I don’t see myself
through your eyes anymore.