by KYRSTIN SUTTON-DAVIS
I hang up my coat after a long days’ work,
turn to the mirror and examine the face looking back at me.
Grey bags under the eyes,
characteristic of an over worked, over used specimen;
deep laugh lines, demanded by others over the years,
a mask that allows them to believe everything is fine,
even when they know it’s not.
Scars and blemishes, highlighting the imperfections and flaws
of a hurt little girl, trying to find her way.
Emerald eyes, glimmering in the dark,
reflecting emotions even they don’t understand.
Soft lips of a small mouth
that are forbidden to share the secrets small ears hear.
(It really is a lot of information for such a tiny organ.)
No matter how many golden locks hide them,
eager lips always seem to uncover the precious jewels,
laying there in the middle of a long face,
stretched out by the heavy expectations over the years.
Pale skin, far from perfect
seems translucent in the night.
There is nothing really special about any one of these features,
other than their seemingly small size.
Outlined by the many blemishes
that blossom from the stress of a long days’ work,
I wonder how some manage to find beauty here.
All I can see are the imperfections and repulsion
so many have been so unkind as to notice.
Nothing like the face I see in class rooms and stores,
certainly not like those on billboards,
beauty does not seem possible.
Smooth skin, pale and full of abnormalities
cover a body of no real definition or distinction,
certainly not one to be lusted after.
There is nothing special about the shape in the mirror,
just another blur you may encounter in passing,
but never really notice.
Dropping my gaze, I turn the faucet on,
splash cool water over my face to wash away the powder
that attempts to cover the imperfections,
I turn off the lights and slip in between the cool sheets,
whisper a silent prayer for the benefit of others,
and slowly drift off to a place all my own.
A few hours of recuperation,