Mirror Mirror

I am a mirror. I am the one that adorns your dressing table. I own a spot in your bedroom. I bask in the lights twinkling in your bathroom and I sometimes find myself compacted into a miniature version of myself to live within your purse.

I can be your greatest friend and your worst enemy. But this depends entirely on you. I just stand there. My job is to pass constant judgement, and I will do so with pride. After all, when I say those jeans don’t look nice, trust me, they do.not.look.nice. You want to keep standing there in the hope that I will change my mind, well, keep hoping. Because it will not happen. You look like you do, and I will not distort my opinions just because you are looking at me with that plea in your eyes and that desperation hanging off your face.

I see it all. I see the jeans you struggle into. The clothes you leave lying on the floor. The dress that has become too loose. How furiously you brush your hair when you’re angry. You can’t hide it. The depths of my glass-like heart is privy to your every action.

And I see the sadness you look at me with at times. And those are the times I wish I wasn’t so cold and detached. I wish I could show you the days you had smiled at me with confidence and pride, giving a little twirl. Or the days when you giggled, dusting your cheeks with blush, excited at the prospect of a beautiful day. I wish it was possible for me to reflect what you needed to see as compared to what you choose to see.

Because if the reflections we see could show us the bigger picture and not the minuscule unhappiness, we’d relax in the fact that the lows are just preparing you for the highs.

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