BY TAKYA STUCKEY

Carefully crawling up from the
sheepskin carpet,
I dread the aftermath
of disturbing her again.
“Get up! Get up!” It cries out.
Picking myself up once more
I can see myself through a window.
“Never call it a mirror,” Momma says.
“It is what it is,” I insist.
“Mirrors were made for princesses of beauty.
You’re simply a mistake of ugliness.”
“You’re not ugly. You were born into purified beauty,”
It softly speaks into my ear.
She fights love with anger.
With that I am forced
to fight anger with love.
Strong as they are,
Hard as they hit,
I fall.
Eventually I pick myself back up.
You think I’m a freak because I talk to myself,
Unaware that I’m only responding
to whispers,
Words from you hardly ever spoken
called encouragement.
No imaginary friends,
I’m only talking to my soul.