The Mirror Is Gentle Until It Isn’t

Some mornings,

I can look at myself like a friend.

Not with awe,

just kindness.

Enough to say:

you made it through the night.

Enough to say:

you are here,

and that counts.

But other days,

the mirror sharpens.

Not with truth,

but with ache.

I tilt my head to fix a shadow

and find a flaw instead.

The skin becomes a map

of places I wish I could erase.

The curve of my stomach,

the slope of my shoulders,

they blur into something

I never agreed to carry.

I know the angles by heart.

How to hide in fabric,

how to breathe small,

how to smile in photos

and still feel like a ghost.

But still—

there are quiet rebellions.

A hand placed gently on the belly.

A compliment I try to believe.

A pair of jeans worn without apology.

I do not always win,

but I do not always lose.

There is a body.

It is mine.

Some days I love it.

Some days I forgive it.

And both are acts of grace.

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Stay Weird. Love you. Mean it.
— No Apologies, Just Stories