Funhouse mirrors

If only I could change my appearance as easily as stepping to a different reflective surface. If only my reflection was a true vision of what my mind’s eye sees.

Do these shiny liars show me what I want to see, what others see, or my true self?

Mirrors show me my evil doppelgänger, but not me. Not who I am, who I want to be. My Ewok legs detached from a body I no longer recognize. Not so wide, but deep, and not in a philosophical way.

My plaintive wailing irritating to my own ears, torture to those closest to hear. Hands over their ears, eyes rolled up, lips pursed in perpetual derision.

Were I to tend to these mocking surfaces, buffing clean the greasy nose prints, and grimy palms – wipe on, wipe off – the exertion would do more to improve my outlook, my looking outward, than the workout my mouth gets complaining.

There are no marauding gangs of body packers, stuffing the unsuspecting and vulnerable with body morphing substances, leaving them bound by mysteriously shrinking clothing. Any and all blames falls to me. Falls as crumbs on a burgeoning mammary shelf, gritty with supper scree and dinner detritus.

Seesaw soles and oversized fleece will make no difference lying in a dark box, or propped up on a padded ottoman. Rubber to asphalt is what is needed to abate the skin to skin chaffing, the lung purging loss of breath, and hands swollen and numb.

Choices are either perpetually avoid those funhouse mirrors, or fight through them to an alternate reality.