05/11/2026
I felt the silence creep in—filling even the smallest spaces.
Deep thoughts settled where conversation once lived.
Now, I can hear myself too loudly.
I didn’t always turn the mirror away.
It became a habit—slowly, after years of studying every imperfection.
Lines where skin used to be smooth.
Softness where structure once held.
Over time, I learned avoidance.
Turning the mirror in the opposite direction in the powder room,
as if not looking could undo what I had seen.
I’ve spent years trying to fix the things I hate most,
even though time was never asking for my permission.
Makeup no longer settles on my eyelids—
it gathers in the quiet folds,
like time refusing to be smoothed over.
And still, I reach for it each morning,
as if practice alone
could return something that has already shifted.
Faint lines stretch across my chest,
marking places I never thought to watch,
as if my body has been keeping count
of every year I tried not to.
I don’t remember agreeing to notice them—
but now I can’t seem to stop.
And beneath it all—
an aching, quiet longing
to feel beautiful
the way I once did.
I still turn the mirror away—
but not before looking
just long enough
to recognize myself.
-Magen J. Smith
