Hell Is The Woman In The Mirror

She couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror, in every reflective window she walked by down the streets. It had become such a force of habit that she didn’t realize the crick in her neck was from subconsciously turning her face to watch herself stroll down the sidewalk in the windowpane of the buildings. That’s also the reason why she hated her walk. She hated the way her shoulders sort of slouched, pitching forward creating a slight angle along the rest of her body. And her hips ambled with her gait, and not in the sexy, nonchalant way she’s seen other girls walk. It was almost like she was lopsided, the left hip missing a piece or something. So now, whenever she walked, she consciously rolled her shoulders back, forcing her blades together almost to the point where she felt like she was leaning backward, and she put more weight on her left leg, evening out her stride. Her back ached at the end of every day and her left leg was constantly cramping, but she finally felt pretty. Almost. 

And it wasn’t just her walk. She always thought her lips were disproportionate to the rest of her face. Having never really outgrown her baby cheeks, she felt that her lips weren’t wide enough in diameter. Where other girls tend to overline their lips or pursue lip injections for a fuller look, she would always subtly press them together to minimize the size of her own. She was fond of her smile, though. She thought she had nice teeth, so she always took the opportunity to smile in photos, even when her friends called for a funny face or a more serious gaze. She despised the way her face looked when it was resting. And of course, she would know. She spent too much time looking at herself in the mirror, to the point where sometimes, she didn’t even recognize her own reflection.

She spent too much time thinking. Specifically about the way her clothes felt on her body. Sometimes they felt like a second skin but one size too small, clinging to her in all the wrong places. The flesh around her armpit, her inner thighs, across her chest, and especially around the waist. Especially jeans. The wrong pair of jeans felt like a man’s unwarranted hands gripping her sides, his fingers digging into her meat warning her she should lay off the desserts for a little bit. But sometimes her clothes felt good. Comfortable. Especially when she felt she could move freely in them, the waistband of her pants laying loose and flat under her belly button. A sweater that billowed around her like a balloon, probably because it was a men’s size large (even though she could easily fit into a women’s medium, with some room to spare. But she didn’t believe it). She liked walking down the streets in these clothes, looking at her reflection in the window panes, liking how it looked like her clothes were swallowing her whole. 

She wish she didn’t think that much. Sometimes, she wish she didn’t think at all. Especially at times when she just wanted to enjoy the moment. Like the other night when she spent the evening enjoying the company of a man. All was going smoothly until she was on top and her shirt was off, and instead of appreciating the moment, all she could worry about was her stomach. And her arms. Where should she put her arms? And this lighting. My god, this lighting is not doing her any good. Eventually, she went to turn it off, feeling instantly more relaxed and confident under the glow of the moon that streamed through his shadeless windows. And even as they continued, even though she was taking pleasure in their time together, the small voice in the back of her head still persisted. She still couldn’t help wondering what she looked like. Did he think she was pretty? Never mind that. Did she think she was pretty? 

She spent too much time looking in the mirror, yet she somehow always had something new to say about her appearance. Sometimes positive, most of the time negative. No, not negative. She wouldn’t admit to that. She considered it constructive criticism. Something to work on, to work towards. She didn’t like to think that she was self-deprecative; that would just be another flaw she didn’t want to be guilty of (she was, though). She would try on her different faces in the mirror. Smile at herself, frown at herself, practice her resting face. She tried to laugh once, but it looked like her reflection was laughing at her, not with her, so she never did that again. She opened her mouth wide, examining every tooth, the underside of her tongue. She lifted her shirt up, sucking in her stomach, pushing it out as far as it could go. She contorted her body in every way possible so she could memorize every inch of her skin, every follicle of hair, every curve and bend of her joints. 

Yet still, it seemed as if she suffered from short-term memory loss. She would be reading in bed one moment, and in the next, she would find herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking at her reflection, unsure of how or why she got there. It is a disease, a sickness she was not quite ready to be cured of. Hell is the woman in the mirror. Hell is the inability to escape her own thoughts. Hell is a beautiful woman refusing to believe she is.