To Every Girl Who Looks in the Mirror

By Alison Fleury | Guest Blogger

First, there is a face.

A young, innocent face. A smooth, clear, happy face.

One day, the face comes, and it is sad. The next day it is painted; concealer hides lack of sleep. Makeup hides a broken heart.

But it can’t hide a thinning face.

The face is too plain, it says; too young. It gathers up pieces of metal and pieces them through the nose. It hurts the face; less than a broken heart.

The face has pain now-pain apart from the break in its heart, for it now has holes in its heart as well as its face. New makeup hides the holes; conceals the mistakes. The face is tired.

But paint can cover it. It puts on a new face; one that is not tired. Is it pretty enough?

The face does not know.

There is paint in one color, and then another. The problem is not the look, says the face, it is the money. But there is money to be had, says the face; money enough…

The face comes back, and the nose is different. It is a famous nose, says the face; this nose will be famous. It has no holes, and no crooked edge; it is better to the face.

The face is different.

The face comes back, again and again, to pull at the hair. The hair is too short; it does not grow right. The face does not like it.

There is no more color in the skin, says the face, putting on its own face; color will help.

The face is thinner.

The face has taken off its own face to cry.

The hole is growing; the face cannot always cover it. But makeup; it covers everything…

I am not beautiful, says the face; this is not a famous face.

The face is thin.

It is covered in nothing but salt water for its pain. Not pretty enough, cries the radio.

The face does not understand; the face is tired, the face has changed…

The face is tired of playing charades, it says; charades are for the famous.

Salt water has washed away the paint on the face; the face can see without the black lashes.

The face was like this once, it says. The face was young, and it was beautiful…

The face is beautiful; says the mirror.

P.S. You are enough.