Glass Teeth

I wake up

and the first thing I do

is avoid myself.

That mirror’s a god I don’t pray to anymore.

It’s a curse, a glare,

a silent reminder

that skin can be a coffin

even when you’re still breathing.

Look at you.

No, really—look.

Eyes like grief held too long

in a leaky basement.

Jaw clenched like it’s trying

not to scream

because if it did,

it wouldn’t stop.

I trace the outline of my face

like a crime scene,

wondering when it became

a place I couldn’t come home to.

The mirror doesn’t blink.

It just stares.

Mocking.

Mimicking.

Murdering me

with every detail I cannot change.

People say

you should love yourself.

That it’s as easy

as clicking your heels

and humming affirmations in the dark.

But they don’t know what it’s like

to live in a body

you want to unzip and step out of,

to peel your own name

off your bones

and forget it ever belonged to you.

I’ve broken mirrors

with fists full of thunder,

hoping the shards

would show me someone else—

someone better.

But even shattered,

my reflection finds a way

to crawl back into the glass.

And yet…

One morning,

I didn’t look away.

Not all at once.

Not with kindness.

Just… less hate.

A second more.

A breath.

Like maybe that person

wasn’t the villain,

just the wound.

Maybe I wasn’t built

to be beautiful

by anyone else’s standards—

but maybe

beauty isn’t the point.

Maybe survival is.

Maybe standing here,

eyes swollen,

heart cracked,

still breathing,

still trying—

maybe that’s the holy part.

I ran fingers over my reflection today

and didn’t flinch.

Didn’t spit.

Didn’t wish I was born

as someone else.

I just said,

“I see you.”