My mirror's nothing special.
It rests under a thin film of dust
obscuring the fragmented poetry I wrote on it
in French, with my chocolate eyeliner.
Yet on a regular basis, there I am,
bouncing back off the glass and through
the dust and mangled thoughts.
When I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear,
I swear I hear the air conditioner slur
in the voice of my dead daddy,
"Baby doll, princess, sweetie,
you know you'd be so pretty
if you'd lose some-a that fat."
Then I breathe in that nasal scent of drowning
that makes my head swim
against the current of my thoughts,
like that one time I thought the mermaid
would grab my hand if I went out far enough.
The ocean agreed it wanted another princess
as it pulled me down, and the salt water
rushed into my throat,
but daddy was busy
teaching mother right and wrong,
so it was the boy with wet curls and no shirt
who stole me from my new home in the sea.
I promised Ariel I'd come back if it meant
my hair would billow in waves of glass
and I could flaunt a tail
that reflected light
bright enough to see
through the dust
and foreign words.