i'll admit i like looking at myself.
i like seeing which parts of my face i inherited from my mother. though my lips aren't quite as full as hers were, i have her mouth. i glance at my posture and can see my father standing there. i have his calves and shoulders. i have my mother's eyes (all her children do) crowned by my father's evil-arch eyebrows. i have his pale skin and her freckles.
Sep 19, 2013
during my breaks in french class, i have a habit of going to the bathroom just to take pictures of myself in the long, dirty mirror. i don't have a full length mirror at home so i rarely see my entire self all at once. i am always broken up in to bits and pieces; a fractured image, shattered glances. or maybe i'm just fucking vain. ;)
but i return to the mirror expecting to see something different. i'm not exactly sure what or why. maybe i've never learned to trust my own image. there's something the mirror lies about or simply can't reflect- the changeability of my face. my sister has this quality too. we look like totally different people in different slants of light or even simply from different angles. each side of the face is totally different from the other. despite my absolute love for it, i have an absolute lack of symmetry.
but that isn't really it. it's the desire for my outsides to match my insides and i'm not sure that they do. for however open i might seem here, there is so much i keep quite and safe from the light. there is so much i do not share. not with anyone. it all lands in the diary and then slowly is reworked in to drawings or poems or blog-posts or blankets. this morning, becca and i texted back and forth about autumn's slow arrival and the call to spend long evenings in bed knitting(her) and crocheting (me). we talked about the urge to return to sweater-making, the ritual of black wool twisted around a hook, and the knots that work together to comprise a solitary work... a piece of clothing which one cannot buy, but only make for oneself. there is a comfort and a loneliness contained in such an act, in such a display of patience. the ache is belied. and though i may wear all my secrets emblazoned on the tshirts and sweaters i make for myself, when i cry it is for an audience of One. i have the only seat.
it's an image of me i no longer offer face to face. i will be silent and still. no flutter of heartache, no betrayal of need or fear.
i like the blurry photograph in the middle the best.