Woman in the Mirror

Monday.

I am looking at the woman in the mirror.

There is vulnerability behind her downward sloping blue-green eyes

but today, they are sharp and hold my attention.

She is wearing nothing but white underwear.

Not quite granny panties,

but not quite cheeky or lacy enough to be sexy by Victoria’s Secret standards.

She tilts her head to the side,

and her gaze tickles my chin, my neck, my chest, my ribcage, my abdomen

with quiet observation.

Today she is approving.

She turns sideways, observes.

Turns back front. Her face is bright before she disappears.

Tuesday.

Woman in the mirror beckons to me.

Her eyes are dark,

even in the direct light of the intrusive sun beams

warming everything from the back of her neck

to the floor beneath her bare feet.

It’s as if someone took a bad memory

and smeared it right above her cheekbones

and under her lower eyelashes.

Her right hand moves to her stomach.

She sucks in her flesh with a strong inhale,

holds it in.

Lets it out.

Wednesday.

She is wearing gray sweatpants

and an old blue tee shirt.

Her eyes are puffy and swollen

from leaking sea spray tears before falling asleep last night.

Today those eyes are more gray than green.

In them I can see the piece of her heart

that went missing eight months ago.

Her shoulders droop forward like an afterthought.

Thursday.

She is showing me her tattoos.

Running her fingers over ink stained skin

here

and here.

They move along the elastic line

of her mountain-blue underwear

and find the outline of her other hipbone.

She feels more flesh than she’d hoped for.

I watch her hands drop to her sides

and her eyes catch mine, embarrassed and

longing.

They are whirlpools of unfulfilled wishes

and I am afraid to wade in.

Friday.

I watch her undress to redress.

She puts on one shirt--too tight.

A second shirt--too much skin.

A third--too conservative.

A fourth--too tight, too tight, too tight.

She blinks at me with frustrated, furrowed brows.

Saturday.

The woman in the mirror tucks her hair behind her left ear

as she criticizes my pale lips and not-visible-enough collarbones.

She takes her hands to her own body,

pinches here, prods there,

tries to force the curvature in front

off to the sides.

Tonight her eyes are the color of midnight,

they look at me with a mixture of measured judgement

and indifference.

Sunday.

Her face is sticky and smeared with last night’s makeup,

but she stands before me looking content and coy.

For once, her thoughts are quiet.

I watch the corners of her mouth curve slightly upward as she gives me the up and down.

We are comforted by each other’s presence in this moment,

but I am weary of her unpredictability.

I don’t think about her for the rest of the day.

I consider this a small victory.

Monday.