In the cold mirror of a glass, I see my reflection pass, see the dark shades of what I used to be - U2, "Love Rescue Me"
Clear glass. That's all it really is, when you come down to it. Sometimes it's pretty. Sometimes the edges of the glass are seamlessly rounded, disappearing into a stunning wooden border of ebony and stone as easily as a mask slips on and off a seasoned face.
But most of the time? It's ugly.
Part of why it's ugly is because it's magic. It's honest, and brutally so. It speaks the truth of all that is visible and all that is not. It reflects everything, every single aspect of who we are - the shadows, the secrets, the emotions, the thoughts, the desires, the sights, the sounds - things that are simultaneously shrouded in darkness and so powerfully bright that they are hidden from view. The chiaroscuro that is the human soul hides behind these flashes of light and dark, these bursts of energy and fire.
In an ironic and twisted way, this inherent complexity of ugly things is beautiful.
Oh, don't look at me like that. I have been known to find ugly things beautiful in the past. And so have you. The shiny beads of sweat rolling down the sides of your lover's face when he sighs your name, the intricate patterns of a spider's web, the way the bones in your best friend's ribcage protrude from her emaciated body like the first buds of spring, poking their heads out from underneath a thick blanket of snow.
Whatever it reflects is beautiful - even if it is ugly.
When I look at the innocuous, nondescript expanse of clear glass mounted on my bedroom wall, I see the ugly bits of me and occasionally the beautiful bits.
I see neatly aligned brown arches over almond-shaped doe eyes, framed with lashes that are neither short enough to make me ugly, nor long enough to make me beautiful. I see pale, soft eyelids - innocence that hasn't been lost [ yet ]. I see murky brown irises, drowning under the intensity of the hurt that has tainted a large part of my human experience. But there's still that faint glimmer, that slight spark, fuelled by my father's smile and the fearless laughter of my friends. You can see it shining like Venus on a dark night, that shadow of hope that prevents my too-wide eyes from glazing over and losing touch with you. The tiniest hints of beauty keep the ugly from overwhelming me.
I see high cheekbones, right under my eyes. Cheekbones that give my face some sense of rigidity. They've become more pronounced over the course of maturity, I notice - and not just because of the loss of baby fat. I've learnt to say no, I've learnt to have opinions and I've learnt to respect myself. Hiding in the rigid set of my bones and the firm curve of my jawline is a girl that is a romantic through and through, but is no longer malleable. Like an autumn leaf falling from a dying tree, every movement is measured, graceful and only slightly shaky. Only slightly.
I see lips so thick and pink, they literally dominate my face. Great big lips. The warm pink reminds you of melting cotton candy, of a childish hope gradually weakened and eventually stolen away by heat and pressure. Their fullness reminds you of generosity and expressiveness, and the way I am so giving and emotive that it hurts you sometimes.
I'm sure you remember the times I overwhelmed you, when that ghost of a sparkle in my eyes danced with the stars in your own and the way your long fingers traced patterns across my pale cheeks. You remember. You remember the day chocolate became ginger, the day wine became water and the day cotton candy became cough syrup. You remember my generous, expressive lips pressing generously and expressively against your thin, unrelenting ones; uninhibited and persistent, until the fire in our hearts went out.
