Reflection a poem

I admire what’s seen of me on the other side… try to see me eye to eye, but I keep getting distracted… no, I keep getting interrupted by the intensity of the two curved lines of hair getting in the way. I followed their path taking me nowhere.

I always hated my eyebrows until I realized I got them from my father. He got it from his father. Eternally looking for something to hate, a detail, a birthmark, a face line, anything. Anything. Hating me feels right.

I crossed paths with my full lips. Nothing, not much to say against them. Until a guy decided to dictate them the only thing they’re good for. Suddenly, they became a symbol of shame, another thing I’d have to tolerate about myself. I sometimes forget that the perception of being forgotten within two generations becomes a myth because the many shades of my lips, and the way I am too constructed into the world, make me go back a thousand generations of bloodline. I looked at my reflection and realized I’m made of nothing but pieces of the people who surround me. And those who once did.

There isn’t a part of me that I don’t have to apologize to. All of me, I hurt.