Who is the woman she portrays to be?
Who is this woman in the mirror?
Is she deep and passionated
or is she haunted and alone?
When the tears are rolling
and the breaths become ragged...
who is this woman that she portrays to be?
Who is this woman in the mirror?
Her chest is heaving,
her hair matted with sweat.
A mess,
a beautiful,
beautiful mess.
Who is this woman she portrays to be?
Who is this woman in the mirror?
Eyes blood red,
blotchy and puffed.
Blood dripping down her wrist,
she takes a deep breath.
Into the shower to clear her sins,
she comes out clean.
Who is this woman she portrays to be?
Who is this woman in the mirror?
Pant-suit on,
briefcase in her hand,
heels higher than her standards,
Who is this woman she portrays to be?
Who is this woman in the mirror?
Smiling at clients,
giving advice to her friends,
no one knows what happens
when she looks in the mirror.
Because not even she knows who she portrays to be.
Not even she knows who this woman is in the mirror.
Please be safe out there, guys.
About the Creator
Alexis Quintana
Hello readers, I am 18 years old, I struggled with self-love and self-esteem since the age of 6. I enjoy writing about my emotions and I love to express myself through stories/poems. I hope you all love what I write. Thank you in advance!
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How My Body Shamers Got Me to Shame Myself
So where do I begin? Where do I even begin to start when I have endured over ten years of cruel and mean insults? Insulted, "joked" toward and beaten up emotionally about my body. How do I even begin to address these people? Well here goes nothing, let me tell you how I felt.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
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