I was never taught to look. Back
In case I catch my own reflection
The spitting image up against the rack.
My face beyond a frown
To deeply terrified mystery filled eyes
In another’s eyes. The bleeding does not stop
The wounds do not heal. Every itch is ravenous
With this broken glass I have to scratch
Scratch the surface
Left a pale shadow of what used to be
We smile and act like everything is okay
With friends we play by day
All the while sucking each other’s essence as fleas
And get stuck in the cycle of lying with smiles on our faces
On their faces I look at what I could be
All the reflections show me the worst parts of myself
In this mirror. that cars sheen. En my foon se skerm.
The world finally got to me
finally reached and grabbed me.
By the balls. I don’t know this person.
dark circles and a body barely alive,
I cannot go anywhere because my sallow skin,
and hollow bones carry no weight.
Lest I be blown away, and for the birds I be bait.
This life. I look. I look at life dragging me
Through gorse and salt
Its jagged edges biting into the skin I barely have
Skin rigged with white lines and a web of wrinkles
Give me a mirror that is mine.
©Sena Cobblah, first published in ‘to grow in two bodies’
Sens Cobblah shows the symptoms of a good writer; deviant, moody and a drunk. Except she’s all of the rest but the writer bit. She practices what she calls writing on her personal blog with short stories and poetry. She believes that one day she can influence culture is she can just get up and do the work.