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mirror, mirror

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly. – Mary Schmich

Striking through this awful fury was the sound of breaking glass.


She realised that she’d smashed the mirror that hung above their bed, her bed, with the flung heel of her boyfriend’s left behind dress shoe.


Seven years bad luck reverberated throughout the apartment. It somewhat sounded like her own voice. And it somewhat calmed her rage. 


Sometimes, however, rage is more preferable to broody, pouty melancholy. 


She sat on the bed and picked up one of the shards of mirror; noticing the fierce edge, riveted by thinking of  the damage that could be done.

She saw that if she held the piece up close enough she could just see proof of her own face. The tiniest aspect. An eye. A wedge of perfectly proportioned brow. The sharp line that connects ear to jaw. Very jagged pieces of self,  reflected back.

Each piece was disconnect. But in every way they all were her.

Yes, that’s right, I am the model from the magazines. June Vogue.

His words cut through her thoughts, tumbling off the slammed door, like waves of nausea.

“…and you’re fucking, fucking ugly on the inside…”

She didn’t buy it.

Arse wipe, she thought. Nobody had ever told her she wasn’t beautiful.

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