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Mirror, Mirror On The Wall.

By @MeaningfulMee

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

Mirror, Mirror on the wall. 

There is a mirror in my bathroom, on the pastel blue wall, beside the toilet, just above the chipped cream sink, just below the ceiling, 

she sits.

she sits there,


She is glaring and she is glaring at me. 

She holds much power.

Like demon with the power of possession. 

She has never met me but I know she alright hates me.

I know she does not want me here. 

She wants to control me, then before someone else takes her place she will kill me. 

She will kill me,

She’s done it before.

There are graveyards full of her victims.

Hospital wards are full of her survivors.

I am next. 

If I look into her, 

I am gone. 


If I do not look,

I am fine.

But the temptation to look into the mirror, 

It kills me.

I long for her approval.

I long for her to accept me.

But she will not.

She accepts few and I am not blonde.

She does not like you,

If you are not blonde.

She has no mercy for the ugly. 

She has little for the pretty.

She likes them humble.

Too humble.

Death doesn’t make a person humble.

No one will tell her,

she continues.

I sit in my room.

I am looking at the picture on my wall.

Above the wooden door, on the pink wall, across from my dressing table and my make up,

She sits. 

It is me.

A filtered version of me.

What the angels see.

The image is edited, 


Flawless is far from beautiful.

I long to be beautiful.

I have seen the picture that hangs on my sister’s wall.


It is a filtered version of her.

An image edited, poked at until it is perfect.

Until it is beautiful.

Beautiful is perfect.

I know that it is worth it.

I want to know what the mirror sees.

What she thinks of me.

How can I be perfect?

Can I even be perfect?

I must try at least.

I walk out of my bedroom, across the hall.

The floorboards creak underfoot.

The light in the hall, it flickers.

It wants to keep going but it is tired.

So tired.

Too tired.

My feet travel with speed.

I hesitate with each step but I still more towards her.

I get to the door.

It is shut.

I flick the light switch.

My fingers press softly against the plastic.

My hand grasps onto the door handle,

I push it.

It opens.

The floor is tiled and it is cold underfoot.

I walk to the sink.

My hands grasp its porcelain rim.

I know she is waiting for me.

I take a deep breath.

I crave her approval.

I lift my head.

I look into her.

I chant to her,

“Mirror, mirror on the wall.

I want your approval,

answer my call,

I except,

That if you don’t like me, 

Then down,


down I shall fall.”

My reflection stares back at me.

I am broken.

There is a crack along my face. 

She hates me.

I hate myself.

A tear runs down my face.

I wish I had never looked.

But now,

Now I can’t look away.

I disgust her.

I disgust myself.

The image I see is revolting.

That is my reflection.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like it at all.

It is ugly.

She is waiting for me.

I am ready to praise her. 


I am hers.

She owns me.

It has been a year since I first looked into her.

I still crave her approval.

I long for her to love me.

She still doesn’t.

I wonder if she ever will.

I dedicate my life to her.

She will save me.

I hope she will save me.

I am sure of it.

I want to ask her again.

I have worked long for her.

I have worked hard.

I hope she approves of me now. 

I am in my bedroom, on my bed, below the ceiling, above hell.

I stand up.

My legs are bone and empty.

They shake underneath my weight.

My legs are not weak.

My weight is just too much.

I will work on that.

I will be beautiful.

If I try hard enough.

My head spins, blood rushes to save it.

I like it though.

It is moments like those that I feel weightless.

It passes and I begin to walk.

I am empty.

I am already tired but I continue.

I get to the door.

I push my hands against the wall.

I breathe. 

I try to stop the pounding in my mind.

It fades away.

I walk out of the room into the hall.

It is dark.

The light gave up.

It was too tired.

Too tired for too long. 

The floorboards still creak underfoot.

If I were beautiful, they wouldn’t.

They wouldn’t make a sound.

If I were beautiful, I’d be light enough to float.

I want to be beautiful.

I feel dizzy.

My fingers press against the light switch.

They have to press hard.

My body is growing weak.

Weak is close to beautiful, 

isn’t it?

The tiles are cold.

Everything is cold.

My skin is so pale.

I am close to a ghost.

My hands grasp against the porcelain rim of the sink.

Their grip is not to be desired.

I look into her.

I start to chant,

“Mirror mirror on the wall…”

I can’t remember the rest.


My mouth continues to open,

Nothing comes out.

My reflection is blurry.

I look into her.

She is empty.

The crack is still there.

My tired eyes fix onto the crack.

I see it.

She is deceptive.

The crack does not belong to me.

It belongs to her.

It is too late.

I see a bright light.

It is beautiful.


 I see nothing.

A deafen shade of black.

And just as I promised her,

I fall. 

I fall,




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