My Mother and I

A Mother is a child’s first glimpse of beauty

The princess a child yearns to look like, to be

But my mother claims she is

No princess

How is she not beautiful?

Is my perception of beauty wrong? Confused, angry, naive, I stand beside her

She looks in the mirror, her image alters

But mine doesn’t

Why does the girl in the mirror look the same as me?

Why doesn’t hers?

She sees herself with

Creases deepening,

And her hair knotting,

But all I see is her radiance

What didn’t I understand?

I would stand and stare,

perplexed

obsessed

Anonymous

edited: Catherine Kazmer

(cw: disordered eating, body image, problematic family relationships)

Where was this body my mother described?

As I grew, she began to alter my image in the mirror, too

Too much skin, not toned enough, pale, imperfect

Face not clear enough, too much hair, unruly

I, too, now have this other body in the mirror

Never sure how it contrasts

reality

Scrutinizing glances, brutal words casually said, habits of skipping meals, morph the body in the mirror But why?

After her observations of my body, does she not say

I am beautiful?

Aren’t her words supposed to help me?

Then why does a tear now fall when

I glance at the mirror too long?

Now we both stand in front of the mirror

The four of us:

Our two mirrored bodies

And my mother and I