Each day I wake.
The mirror says look.
I do.
I hate. the mirror.
"Maybe, maybe, baby."
The mirror teases me.
If glass could smile
it would.
Because it loves
to be cruel.
That's the nature
of glass -
to be sharp,
and to cut.
Then I realize
it's not the glass
that's cutting me.
My own reflection stares,
angular and jagged,
lips whispering.
They tell me to look.
I do, and
I'm the face that I hate.