Without Mirrors

Without a mirror I can easily forget what others see. Without a mirror, I can see parts of myself, skewed by my mental expectations and desires. I'm not so short, not so curvy. My hands aren't so small and my face not so round and soft. My voice, standing alone, sounds to my liking.

But then I'm reminded, so easily. A glance downward, or in the reflective glass, that's all it takes. Even the best company brings out in me what I don't desire.

And who can I blame for these chromosomal failures? My parents? Not really. Perhaps it's my fault, for not being happy. "Only you can make yourself happy," they all say. And then they wonder why I find them so irritating.

I feel myself alone without mirrors, lifting weights, pushing against the ground then up again. I imagine myself surpassing my current capacities. I imagine definition in my arms, back, and torso. I imagine a strong face.

I imagine power, a subtle and unspoken dominance. I imagine being taken seriously, being seen not as soft and vulnerable, but as independent, flexible, and naturally commanding. No one will ever wonder why I don't wear dresses.

Why couldn't I have been born in a way congruent to my happiness? Or was I destined to be broken all along? What if I didn't have to wish for muscles and hair? Would I find this space of being any less repulsive?

I just want to be who I was supposed to be. I want to be wanted for myself. I want that self to be representative in and out.

Sigh.