Two years old.

Her mother holds her in her arms,

In front of the bedroom mirror.

“Who’s that?”

“Who’s that pretty girl?”

“That’s you, sweetheart!”

Her small, chunky hand,

Reaches to meet the imposter’s hand.

She doesn’t understand.

“Who is this person?”

“Why does she look like me?”

“why is she copying me?”

Five years old.

In front of the same bedroom mirror,

She stands in a fairy costume,

Wings, wand, pumpkin bucket and all.

Eyes wide and sparkling, brimming with excitement.

She twirls around, keeping her eyes glued to her reflection

“I’m a fairy!”

“Mommy, I’m a fairy!”

Eleven years old.

She gets ready for school,

Deciding between hair up or hair down.

She stares at herself in a ponytail,

she stares at herself with hair covering her shoulders.

Up once again,

Down.

She decides to tie it up,

Wanting to flaunt her new scrunchie that day.

She smiles at her reflection, happy with her work.

Sixteen.

She’s found a love for makeup,

Spending hours at her vanity,

Staring at herself as she experiments with products.

Foundation, concealer,

blush, highlight,

eyebrows — an astonishing amount of makeup.

“Your makeup looks so good!”

“Your skin is glowing!”

Compliments are a double edged sword;

Boosting her confidence,

Yet creating subliminal stress over her natural appearance.

Uneven pigmentation, freckles, acne.

“I need to cover up.”

Nineteen.

She’s holding outfit after outfit on her body,

In front of her full-length mirror.

She decides on a shirt she likes,

but stares at her slightly exposed stomach.

She squeezes the fat around it with her fingers,

Blaming it on the alleged “Freshmen 15” of college.

She compares herself to,

Instagram models online.

“I need to lose weight.”

“I’m so fat.”

“Why can’t I look like them?”

She sucks in her stomach,

Striking a couple poses, liking how she looks.

She lets out her gut again,

sitting in her own self pity once again.