The false mirror

I stare at myself in my full length mirror,
sheer red, black filigree, soft heavy breasts held high, on a platter.
Fine, black stockings coating smooth legs,
dark lace, milky thighs, creamy round bottom peeking from behind.
Silky blonde hair swept up in a bun,
simple mascara, cherry gloss, a few pinches of the cheeks.

I rise on tip toes to lengthen the effect,
how I wish I had a sexy pair of fuck me pumps.
But, how could he resist? He wouldn’t resist.
I’ve given all the signals…
He knows I want to play…

I step out, into the chill of our large bedroom,
waiting to fill his vision,
walking toward him when he doesn’t notice.

Finally, standing before him, screaming at him in my mind,
Notice me, please don’t hurt me, Notice me!

Deer in headlights, as blank as could be.
Why is he surprised but not happy? His response, or lack of one, derails me.
I arrange myself on the pillows as he finishes his bedtime routine,
I wouldn’t have cared if his teeth were unbrushed.
But it gives me a moment, to swallow the hurt,
to refuse rejection, it has no place here.
Not here.

He flips off the light.
Always in the dark.
Always unseen.
Does the mirror lie to me?
Is it a false reflection I see?
Why doesn’t he want me?

Why don’t you want me?
I do, he says.
But the rejection sits there, on my chest.
In this place where it shouldn’t be allowed.

And I get angry with the mirror.
As he climbs on top of me,
Obligated.

God Damn that mirror.

That stupid, mocking, false mirror.

Broken by ElisabethAnna via DeviantArt.com
Broken by ElisabethAnna via DeviantArt.com

Another old draft that I don’t want to delete… The mirror still mocks me sometimes.

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21 thoughts on “The false mirror

  1. This makes me angry. Angry for the idiots who are presented with such beauty and reject it, angry at never being presented with it myself. Your first two stanzas are like a dream. The rest, and angry nightmare.

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    1. It lies on both sides, that anger. Sometimes, the guys and girls that don’t see what stands before them aren’t idiots… Just confused, weary or dealing with their own broken mirror.

      If you have a girl, tell her she’s beautiful everyday until she believes you. She might just treat you to the dream.

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  2. Mirror mirror on the wall
    tell me mirror what is wrong
    what by change am I missing
    is there anyone to listen
    what i see is that a lie
    i see smiles while i cry
    mirror mirror on the wall
    tell me mirror what is wrong

    On could feel the hurt in it. the rejection after putting so much effort in yourself to impress. Shattered became not the mirror but the dream/wish/desire.

    But there is a small Dominant part of me smiling a little.

    Keep on smiling beautiful.

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    1. I am smiling. I rarely stop… like the poem you wrote here! Regardless, this was written months ago. I’m too pregnant, currently, to worry about what the mirror says.

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      1. Thank you, just something that always plays in my head when I read a mirror poem. And they never the same.

        congratulations! How many more weeks do you have to go before you can hold the little kicker?

        A smile a day keeps boredom away.

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      2. I’m 30 weeks, and boy is she ever a kicker! My little dancer.

        I have lots of reasons to smile these days. Thank you!!

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  3. Mark said it so well that the first part of your post is a dream, but the rest turns into a nightmare. To answer the sexy vision you describe in the beginning with just obligation is mind-boggling. Even with being married for years, to see that sexiness should get a rise out of a husband. Everyone’s got their issues, but I would think those could be placed to the side when faced with that beauty.

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    1. It is mind-boggling. But to be fair, I was in a bad place many months ago when I wrote this and perceived everything as rejection. I was in a bad place then… I still struggle with feeling unwanted. But perhaps my constant need for approval and attention is part of the problem… I’m sure it can be exhausting.

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  4. A powerful, stunning write cara’Mel
    Amazing.
    Howling at the Fucking Moon (((Awhoooo)))
    I can’t imagine not noticing even without the f.m.p’s

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  5. Well Mel, keeping on trying doesn’t always work out in the long run, because even if it makes sense that the two of you should be the perfect pair; same common interests, get along great, could be best friends, even both great parents: doesn’t mean that you should be married. Trust me if there are lingering problems, when the chips are on the table down the road; don’t count on the other. I was a stubborn bastard twice; and it cost me. It cost one of my kids even more the first time. The second time? Well, let’s just say that I lost everything and had to crawl back back to my humanity years later thanks to someone who penetrated the darkness of the reality which had consumed me.

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    1. My marriage… it is complex, beautiful, delicate and frustrating. But as I work to find my voice and exercise it more, things improve. We love each other, and that is the important part… That is the part that doesn’t always come through when I’m desperate, empty and filling the holes with my words. But I don’t disagree with you. It doesn’t always work. I have two gorgeous, sweet and amazing products of my marriage that deserve my every effort, though.

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      1. Yes I agree that they do deserve every effort. But one needs to realize that tiny cracks which are evident over a long period of time may be an indication that there is an inherent, fundamental flaw. Beware the barking dog.

        Liked by 1 person

  6. But before I got sidetracked on my rant (you should see the paragraph I deleted) I was going to say: Is that you in the mirror Mel? Then I read the comments and I now suppose it was. Which brings me to a point. My short stories tend to be all over the place with respect to themes and genre whereas my poems all have a common denominator: loss/memory/heartache. Oh if I happen to run into her at a show I may slapdash a poem when I return home that evening on a slightly different note. But mostly the poems are about unwanted memories, keeping them at bay, purging my mind of them etc. Poems are where I tend to go when my soul is aching and prose when my mind and thoughts are racing; perhaps the reason for the melancholy tone in my poetry. Not like the ‘My sweet Lily sitting beneath the rosy garden bough’ ilk for sure. Do you tend to hit the poetry ‘button’ in certain moods or circumstances? Just wondering. Think that I will take a break from reading for a while and try to write a poem about something different for a change. Thanks for the inspiration.

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    1. I’m all over the place with my inspiration. The entire world is my muse and what/how I write is just as diverse, I think. This piece, and many others, come from angst. But much and many of my pieces came from moments of bliss and wonder. My “theme”, as it were, is simply that I’m a broken girl, with a lot of insecurity, and I lack the voice to discuss it, so I write it. I hope to really delve back in soon. I have so many partially completed pieces that I really want to share with my friends!

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