You ebbed and flowed through consciousness like the tides. Never with one foot firmly on the ground, always intent on leaving. Was I not enough to stay? When you clocked out, I clocked in. Empty vodka bottles encased you as smoke enveloped me. I swept your shattered pieces left scattered at my feet. First to go were the still-lit cigarettes, begging to burn down my living nightmare. Clearing the smoke allowed me to breathe, if only for a moment.
I know this pattern emerged long before my life was conceptualized. Conceivably, you were too far down the pit of addiction by the time my tiny, helpless body made its debut. My pleas of desperation weren't loud enough to pull you out. The years of cleaning up your demons hardened my love into hate. At my core, the detest was still fueled by fervent affection, but you'd have to dig deep to find it. By the time you checked out permanently, I had too.
When I look in the mirror, I no longer recognize the reflection staring back at me. This woman is older than I am. The shape of her mouth does not show me joy but criticism. She has hard creases on her forehead and between her eyes. Her once enviable cheekbones have been buried beneath the weight of depression. This woman’s ocean-blue eyes have darkened with time. She traded her porcelain skin for broken blood vessels and dry spots. Her curly auburn hair has gone limp and wiry where the white came in.
The mirror’s reflection shows a body that is not my own. Her posture is burdened, shown in the slump of her shoulders. Her shape has transformed from hard hourglass to soft and pillowy. Her arms are freckled with age. Her hands are lined from use. This woman’s breasts sag as the stretch marks pucker around her nipples. Her previously round belly button has collapsed into itself. Her hip bones have long since been covered with layers of indulgence. Her thighs dimple and her knees fold.
She is unrecognizable from the outside, permanently altered. What caused the woman staring back at me to become a stranger? Was I too preoccupied with surviving to notice her change? I didn't see her shoulders begin to sag. I missed her body plumping. When did her hands become wrinkled with time? On what day did her face form its first permanent scar of emotion? The reflection in the mirror shows every laugh and furrowed brow. If I know how this woman came to be, is she a stranger?
