The Mirror Lied

The mirror lied to me for years,

A silver-tongued deceiver framed in wood,

Whispering flaws that no one else could see,

Magnifying shadows where my light should be.

Each morning, faithful to our bitter ritual,

I'd stand before its merciless reflection,

Cataloging every perceived imperfection,

A prosecutor building a case against myself.

"Too much," it said of parts I tried to hide.

"Too little," it declared of what I offered.

"Not enough," its verdict, day by day,

As I surrendered to its cold appraisal.

I don't remember when I first believed

These fabrications polished to a shine.

Perhaps a careless word, a sidelong glance,

A comparison that burrowed deep within.

The mirror never showed the hands that held

A friend through grief when words would not suffice,

Or how my laugh could brighten darkened rooms,

Or strength that carried others through their storms.

It never reflected how my mind could dance

Through worlds of thought with grace and fierce delight,

Or how my heart, though bruised, still opened wide,

To love despite the risk of breaking twice.

One day, exhausted by this false indictment,

I looked beyond the surface it presented.

"What if," I whispered to my tired eyes,

"The mirror is the one that has it wrong?"

What if this glass, this silver-backed illusion,

Lacks the depth to capture what's within?

What if worth isn't measured by reflection,

But by the light we generate ourselves?

That day I stepped back from its narrow frame,

And sought new mirrors in the eyes of those

Who saw me whole—my flaws and gifts entwined,

A tapestry more complex than I knew.

I found my image in the grateful smile

Of one whose burden I had helped to bear,

In words of truth I'd spoken when it mattered,

In promises I'd kept at personal cost.

I saw myself reflected in the courage

It takes to rise when falling seems far easier,

In boundaries drawn with love but firm conviction,

In dreams pursued despite the fear of failing.

Now when I face that mirror on the wall,

I see beyond its two-dimensional view.

Its voice grows fainter as I choose to listen

To deeper truths that shimmer from within.

The mirror lied—but I don't believe it anymore.

My worth was never something it could measure.

Some days this knowing comes with greater ease;

Some days I must remind myself again.

But this I hold as compass and as anchor:

I am not made of surfaces alone.

My beauty lives in depths the mirror cannot fathom,

In light that needs no glass to prove it shines.