“Gorgeous” they call me

What are they seeing?

It can’t be what my mirror conveys.

How I wish I could see what the others see in me.

What do they find gorgeous?

If I see me through their eyes,

Will I see my complexion clearer?

Will I see myself as taller?

Will I see my waist five inches thinner?

Am I an illusionist under a veil of glamour,

A homely servant girl under the guise of a seductress?

What I see in the mirror cannot be “gorgeous”.

When people look at me, is there always somebody behind me

Who they see and call “gorgeous”

And I am only misinterpreting?

Or are others’ eyes time machines

In which they see me from years past,

When my hair was silky,

When my figure was hourglass,

When my arms were toned,

When my face was spotless…

I wish I could see what others see in me.

Maybe then I would see that it is not me that is flawed,

But the mirror…

But how can every single mirror bear the same flawed image?

It cannot be the mirror.

It must be me.

Are my eyes flawed?

But the scales, the measuring tape, the clothing sizes don’t lie.

Who is lying to me?

What is lying to me?

Only one way to find out

Only one impossible way

I must see what others see when they look at me.

I cannot take their word.

Who could take the word “gorgeous” seriously,

When the mirror conveys otherwise?

Humans are liars.

But my eyes don’t lie.

“Gorgeous” they call me.

Don’t fill my head with lies.

Don’t stroke my ego.

Don’t call me “gorgeous”

When I am obviously not.