It isn't in the mirror
that she sees the real damage
No, it's in touching wounds
full flesh giving in to kind hands
that aren't her own
she learned what beauty was
society smart class and manners
affected accents and false language
it is the thing writers are made of
this burrowing into the space between
what they say
and who they are.
The middle is where
stories are made.
How could she know
her beauty wasn't her own.
clarity of message unspoken
this isn't your place
it's mine,
my echo.
the roles we play
take their toll in self.
we meet the world with
a layer of cheesy white
protecting delicate skin.
We spend the rest of our days
raw.
