What My Mirror Tells Me

I look at the woman staring back at me and wonder what they see.

I will not claim to be a victim of the men who have loved me — and they have loved me.

No matter how much that love has caused me pain, no matter how much I have tormented myself over decisions made under the influence of their love, still, they loved me.

And I was a willing participant. I drank their poison, even when I could detect that tell-tale, almond-sweet scent. I told myself that they had the best of intentions.

And maybe they did, but still, they offered me poison, and still, I drank it.

And as I look into the depths of my own soul, searching for her answers, wondering why she allowed herself to be treated like a shadow, like a skeleton in the closet, just an escape from reality, I realize…

Underneath all that brokenness, underneath all that pain and all that questioning, underneath all the wondering if she’ll ever be worthy enough to attain the things she desires… Underneath all those doubts…

Lies a hopeless optimist, a relentless believer.

In all those dark times she promised herself that there would be light at the end. And if no light would be found, she would be the light herself.

In all that pain at the hands of men, she believed in their love and their goodness. She thought she could reach it. And even if she couldn’t, still she believed it to be there.

In the wreckage of the world’s dreams, she knew that new dreams could be built, that the world could be born again.

And as I look into her eyes now, I see the hope still. Perhaps that is what they see, as well.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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