Mirrorwyrms

ISSUE #104

I can't stop looking in the mirror. No longer can I stand my phone, so I've returned to the original screen. I watch my arms grow thinner, my eyes sink deeper, my bones reveal their contours like roots pushing up on the sidewalk.

Mirrors convince me to Google insecurities, things like "masculine ideal" and "how to take good pictures" and "are you sure guys with long hair are still hot?" Secretly I mean, "If I have wrinkles, do I deserve to live?" or "How long until the end of love's runway?"

They reflect us clearer than most, but mirrors are not objective—they're rippling portals to parallel worlds, full of Vanity's demons, tricky magic that traps those who aren't careful. I try to see myself as others would, but it's impossible. I lack the proper tools. A mirror is handy but cannot capture context, history, bias, or memory — hair triggers that fire judgements at haircuts or foreheads or tones of voice.

I have no control over what others think of me. This is the worst truth in my entire life, as futile as it is inescapable, just as enduring as it is trite. My self stands strong in ego's armor, but everything I say exposes cracks, just wide enough for barbs to slip right through.

Yet maybe there's a mirror that can shield us: our image in a lover's eyes, reflections carved from grace and not conceit, viewers with the power to move the frame and show us worth concealed by silver panes.