Writing Prompt

The mirror stares me down with a face I don’t remember, the face of a disguise, all hidden but my eyes. The mirror stares me down, tries to tell me who I’ve been. They say that it tells lies. They say it’s in my mind.

My mind knows every detail, every part of who I am. The versions of myself that I’ve drawn across my hand. But I don’t know my mind. Or what’s left of it to find—the tattered fabric of my soul, I’ve left in days of old.

Looking at my face, the memories aren’t real. Memories of staring through the things I used to feel. Now I hide from mirrors, mirrors on the walls. But your eyes are mirrors too, and I can’t hide from them, I fall.

i know every detail about every version of herself she has ever been and ever will be i know the way her hair is smooth and shiny in my hands i know the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles and i know the way her heart runs across the world dancing miles around yours, wishing the bubbles of you typing would appear on her screen even if she says she doesn’t care i know she does because we’re the same, me and her thats how i know it all every curve in her waist every line on the palm of her hands the lines on our palms fit together like pieces in a puzzle sliding perfectly where they’re supposed to be like your arms around my shoulders

i know every detail about every version of ourselves we’ve ever been i’ve never been more in love with a girl so platonically before everyone on this entire earth all 8 billion people should love her as much as i do because she’s so perfect, so messily put together and chaotically happy and she’s real to me because she’s jsut like me

know one will ever get to know her like i do because she is me and i am her we will never lose each other because we are each other and you can’t lose a piece of your soul that’s what she is a piece of my soul

You kiss my cheek every morning Your lips bright red Your hair tied up And now your brother is dead

An evening before You wore dark purple And evening gown You got payed triple

The week before then Your hair was woven That very day You got cursed by a coven

The day before You were two-inches higher That was the day Your parents died in a fire

Keep changing, my dear Good fortune will come Through good and bad And repetitive scum

I will make you perfect Keep testing you, love You will be mine always Like a pretty little dove

I walk around this world knowing I walk around this world seeing Taking it all in I know every detail about every verison of herself she has ever been I watch closely as she lives her life Waiting until the time is right I guide I teach I show I only want what’s best I love you already And I care for you greatly I can’t wait to know you I can’t wait to meet you Baby girl

I know every detail about every version of herself she has ever been. **I had to know everything, or is that what she believed. ** **I knew her grade school best friend, just didn’t know it would die off in grade school. ** **I knew her favorite sport, just didn’t know it would come to an end. ** **I knew her favorite food, just didn’t know it would be simplistic. ** **I knew her easiest subject, just didn’t know she’d be using it everyday. ** **I knew that one day she’d make powerful change, just didn’t know how. ** **I knew she was ambitious, just didn’t know her strength and courage. ** **I may know every detail about every version of her, I just never knew every detail of every version. ** **Until, once lived and discovered. **

Beads of sweat began to form on the woman’s brow as she carried her water pot to Jacob’s Well. Though the midday sun was scorching, she feared even more the heated scorn that she would face from the other women. Going now meant she was not likely to meet anyone on her journey since the other women of the city came to draw water at the cooler part of the day.

As she approached, she noticed a Jewish man sitting upon the edge. She avoided his gaze and did not speak. The Jews’ hatred for the half-blooded Samaritans was common knowledge. Some Jews would even take the longer route that crossed the Jordan in order to avoid Samaria entirely. He would ignore her, she would ignore him, and they would both be on their separate ways shortly.

As she set down her water pot and stopped to catch her breath, the man said, “Give me to drink.”

Startled, the woman looked up and found eyes that looked kindly upon her instead of being filled with scorn and hatred. She stammered, “How is it that thou, being a Jew, askest drink of me, which am a woman of Samaria? for the Jews have no dealings with the Samaritans.”

He replied, “If thou knewest the gift of God, and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have asked of him, and he would have given thee living water.”

Puzzled, the woman glanced around. “Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence then hast thou that living water? Art thou greater than our father Jacob, which gave us the well, and drank thereof himself, and his children, and his cattle?”

He smiled knowingly, his eyes twinkling. “Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again: But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.”

The woman’s jaw dropped. She could sense the sincerity in this man’s voice, and that caused her heart to race. If she could get a hold of this living water, it would solve all her problems. Never again would she be forced to face either the midday heat or the heat of scornful eyes! Breathless, she excitedly pleaded, “Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw.”

The man replied, “Go, call thy husband, and come hither.”

The woman’s face fell, and her cheeks flushed as she looked down at her feet. “I-I have no husband.”

The man nodded. “Thou hast well said, I have no husband: for thou hast had five husbands; and he whom thou now hast is not thy husband: in that saidst thou truly.”

The woman gasped sharply in astonishment! _“How does he know so much about me?” _she wondered. “Sir, I perceive that thou art a prophet. As a man of God, I have a question for you: where should people worship? Our Samaritan forefathers have worshipped in these mountains for generations; but you Jews say that all men ought to worship God in Jerusalem.”

The man smiled again and replied, “Soon, it won’t matter where men worship. They will be able to worship God freely, wherever they are. But the important part is not the place of worship: it is the Person that you are worshiping. Since you have mixed your knowledge of the one true God with that of pagan deities, you do not truly know the God whom you worship, nor His salvation. We Jews do.

“But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such to worship him. God is a Spirit: and they that worship him must worship him in spirit and in truth.”

The woman said, “I know that Messias cometh, which is called Christ: when he is come, he will tell us all things.”

His eyes twinkled again as he said, “I that speak unto thee am he.”

The woman then left her waterpot, and went her way into the city, and saith to the six men she had had relations with, “Come, see a man, which told me all things that ever I did: is not this the Christ?”

She stands before the mirror, a shadow in her eyes, A flicker of a question beneath the vast disguise. The world has carved her edges, reshaped her every bend, Yet whispers of another self call softly in the wind.

A version of herself she’d never thought to see, A dreamer, bold and fearless, unbound, and truly free. Not tethered to the weight of doubts the years have sewn, But rooted in the courage of paths she’s never known.

Her voice would rise like thunder, her heart would hold the flame, She’d walk through storms unyielding, unshaken by the blame. This stranger in her mind, this flickering ideal, Feels distant yet familiar, a shadow she could feel.

If only she could meet her, if only she could try, To stitch the fractured pieces of her soul that still comply— With rules she’s never chosen, with walls she never built, To break away from echoes of silence and of guilt.

But maybe she is closer, not lost, just out of view, A version of herself that waits for skies to turn to blue. For every step she’s taken, and every tear she’s shed, Has led her toward becoming the vision in her head.

She’s not a distant stranger, not someone far away, But rising in the quiet of each unguarded day. And when she finds her footing, the woman she will see, Is the truest version of herself she’s ever meant to be.

Do you? Or have you just convinced yourself of that? Have you just told yourself that you’ve seen her through every single event of her life? Have you just seen enough of her to believe that?

Have you seen every single time she has cried? Have you seen every single rage that she has raged? Have you seen every single smile that she has smiled? Have you seen it all? Have you seen her at her worst? Have you seen her at her best?

Or have you just thought you have? Have you just been seeing the version you want to see? Have you been seeing that version for so long and you just refuse to see any other version of her?

It’s your choice. Do you wish to see these things? Or do you wish to remain a small part of her life?

I know every detail about every version of herself she has ever been But is that for the best. What if I wanted to forget? Anxious and critical and a failed perfectionist I wish sometimes I could be someone I never met

Because for better or for worse, Herself is me And with every change and phase the same question remains: How do I become the version of me I want to be?

But maybe it doesn't have to be impossible I can write the details of my next version day by day Make changes and be better on purpose And one day soon, I can proudly say

I know every detail about every version of herself she has ever been

I know her well. How many years known her? Should I tell? No, no, not in detail. She was my friend. That’s the beginning And even the end. Her face changed, She lived so many times So many places; Different towns and climes. Men came and went And she changed for them. Still I remained Always there unnamed. I know her well. Don’t I?