I spend a lot of time peering in the mirror. I try to hold my own gaze as long as I can. Like a staring contest, except I never win. I watch myself express determination. It's just a little bit defiant. I'm allowed to blink. I lose if I look away in shame.
My hands gripping the porcelain sink are cold but my fingers are used to these games. They tighten as my face becomes more resolute. I am stone. I am unflinching.
I wish my eyes were ice blue like my father's, piercing and brave. Instead, my eyes are green. Hazel, really. As a child, I detested my eyes and associated the color with murky swamp water. Writhing things lived in that lagoon. I was sure of it.
Dry, I blink. The determination never lasts for long. My mind wanders and when I refocus, I scrutinize myself again. I see disdain. Cold mockery gazes back at me and I allow just a touch of anger to seep into my eyes. There have been many times where I could only last a few minutes. This wasn't going to be one of them.
My stomach resting on the sink aches. I shift my stance and narrow my eyes. I'm not quite sure what I'm waiting for. I've wondered if I was looking for some sign of solace--some hint that I'm alright now. I haven't been for so long that at times I feel like I'm being consumed by my dark thoughts. It's a small comfort to see those terrors not leaking from my eyes.
I shiver--chilled, not frightened. I don't quite believe it.
My breath fogs the mirror and it snaps me out of my head. I lean back quickly, straightening my shoulders. I permit myself a small, wry chuckle at the thought of someone barging in the bathroom and mistaking my actions for someone in love with the sight of themselves. Disdain, again in my eyes. I bristle and the contempt intensifies.
The muddy line encircling my pupils constrict.
Written last year, April 2012.
My hands gripping the porcelain sink are cold but my fingers are used to these games. They tighten as my face becomes more resolute. I am stone. I am unflinching.
I wish my eyes were ice blue like my father's, piercing and brave. Instead, my eyes are green. Hazel, really. As a child, I detested my eyes and associated the color with murky swamp water. Writhing things lived in that lagoon. I was sure of it.
Dry, I blink. The determination never lasts for long. My mind wanders and when I refocus, I scrutinize myself again. I see disdain. Cold mockery gazes back at me and I allow just a touch of anger to seep into my eyes. There have been many times where I could only last a few minutes. This wasn't going to be one of them.
My stomach resting on the sink aches. I shift my stance and narrow my eyes. I'm not quite sure what I'm waiting for. I've wondered if I was looking for some sign of solace--some hint that I'm alright now. I haven't been for so long that at times I feel like I'm being consumed by my dark thoughts. It's a small comfort to see those terrors not leaking from my eyes.
I shiver--chilled, not frightened. I don't quite believe it.
My breath fogs the mirror and it snaps me out of my head. I lean back quickly, straightening my shoulders. I permit myself a small, wry chuckle at the thought of someone barging in the bathroom and mistaking my actions for someone in love with the sight of themselves. Disdain, again in my eyes. I bristle and the contempt intensifies.
The muddy line encircling my pupils constrict.
Written last year, April 2012.