Chrissy’s retelling of ‘A Conversation With Broken Inner Child to Currently Trying to Heal Self’ Even with the gift of words under her belt, here’s what she didn’t say
For years,
she's been looking in
the mirror asking
the same questions,
who is she and
who is standing there
staring back at her
in place of her reflection.
She can’t look
into a mirror
without looking
for some form of
validation;
that just isn’t there,
can’t look
in the mirror
without having
some form of dialogue;
there just isn’t anything
to be said, but the question
to be asked at the risk
of never getting answered.
Who are you?
For years,
she had revived
nor responses but
spent her time
getting lost in possible answers.
For years,
where is it a young woman’s soul goes
when she’s left in the darkness and
no knowledge of who she is anymore?
For years
she had looked in the mirror and
had a stranger looking right back at her.
The stranger would say:
stop looking in the mirror so often.
Lately when she looked in the mirror,
with tears dripping from both
bright red and puffy eyes.
She’d see the stranger
looking back at her
without an inch of sympathy insight.
The stranger would say:
stop looking in the mirror so often,
there isn’t anything there.
Where is it that
the soul of a young woman goes
when she fears
she’ll never be completed,
when she fears
trying to find who is actually is
would be no different
than being a child
looking for eggs hidden around a house
on Easter morning.
The stranger would say:
You only see what you want, somewhat in denial.
The world you grew fond of in fairytales
never lived beyond the page.
You will not go and find the end of a rainbow.
The person that you have been looking for
no longer lives at this address.
Where is this young woman’s soul
when she wants it?
She’d ask: Where did she go?
For years, she’s felt out of control in her own life
like a character being rewritten in a story.
Where is her soul
when she wants to feel
anything and everything more
than the expectations
brought on by her own gender,
when she wants to feel
something other than the
loneliness the night brings her?
She’d ask again: where did she go?
Can you tell me where is the soul of this young woman?
She’d ask: if she isn’t here anymore, where is she now?
The stranger would say: the fact that you don’t know only proves my point.
The stranger would start laughing,
her laughter is sinister
it is felt in the depths
of the young woman’s stomach,
her heart is racing,
her ribcage and chest are working together to keep her heart in place.
The young woman’s reflection,
the stranger, looking at her,
a Cheshire cat smiles on her laughing face.
Where is her soul
when her own body knows
all too well it’s time to cry and
doesn’t care if there’s a shoulder there to cry on?
She’d ask again: if she isn’t here anymore then where is she now?
She can’t look
into a mirror anymore
without wanting to be heard,
the only ears offered to her
within the room to listen
are provided by herself, the stranger in her reflection.
She can’t look in the mirror anymore
without questioning
the reflection that’s provided to her,
She swears that the stranger can hear her,
knows that the stranger could
respond if they wanted to,
when she gets so close as to fog
the mirror with her breath
the stranger can feel the same
breath down their neck,
can feel the tickling sensation of the
neck hairs dancing in the wind
she creates.
She can’t look
into a mirror without looking
for validation.
She’d whisper: tell me I’m beautiful.
Where is the soul
of a young woman
when she feels like this?
When she finds herself continuously feeling like this?
When hiding in plain sight isn’t really hiding for her anymore?
When she can’t look
into a mirror
without knowing
that the stranger
looking right back at her,
who has both given and stolen everything from her,
is the same person
who’s in charge of where
the soul when found goes for eternity.
